Pittsburgh!

When you’re a mom, a “vacation” isn’t really a vacation…it’s just doing everything you always do somewhere else. Tack on taking our very short summer vacation to Pittsburgh…well, Pittsburgh isn’t anyone’s idea of a vacation spot. But my littlest Pittsburgh native was delighted to be “home”. Of course Ed was happy to be home. Emry always loves to travel…and Ellyson didn’t know the difference. The fact that I didn’t get screamed at as I had on our last visit…we’ll call the trip a success!

 

                                                                                        At the Point. 

(For those of you who have no idea what this is: it’s where the Monongahela River meets the Allegheny River to form the Ohio River. It’s also where Pittsburgh started as “Fort Pitt”.)

 

On top of Mt. Washington with the Pittsburgh skyline behind us.

 

Emry eating a sandwich at Ed’s favorite Pittsburgh spot: Primanti Brother’s.

 

Ed at the Strip District with Primanti’s behind him. 

(For those of you who are possibly thinking what I first thought when Ed would tell me about his days spent at the “Strip District” it is not referring to strip clubs. It was actually a strip of warehouses. When Ed would waste time down there he was usually trying to kill himself with motorcycles and fast cars. When we lived there it was falling apart. Today it’s been “revitalized” and looks quite hipster.)

Emry, Ethan and Ellyson with three of their four Camus cousins: Declan, Macey and Zoey. 

(Missing is Caley, the eldest, who was at band practice.)

 

Ed with his mom and younger brother David. 

The Last of an Era

My grandmother’s house in Lewisburg, Tennessee was situated at a kind of fork in the road. A road ran directly to the driveway which ran around the backside of the house and up the one side. At that road, you could go into the driveway or turn left or right. The road to the left ran directly along the front side of the house (the side we almost never saw) while the road to the right ran over and into another part of the neighborhood. The first two houses on the left of that road had backyards that ran into my grandmother’s backyard. In those houses lived Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran.  Along with my grandmother, all three were widows for as long as I knew them.

 

Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran had lived in those two houses forever, just as my grandmother had lived in her house forever. Of course that wasn’t true, but they had lived there for as long as I had been alive and they had been widows for as long as I had been alive. As a tiny girl, I don’t think it ever occurred to me that there had been a Mr. Cochran or a Mr. Little at some point in time. Nor that Mrs. Cochran or Mrs. Little had families outside of my own. They were just Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran, as much a part of my life as my own grandmother.

 

Mrs. Little and Mrs. Cochran were always at family events at the house. Sometimes they were there the whole time, sometimes they just made an appearance. Christmas, Thanksgiving, other get togethers – they brought over dishes, sat around the table, told family stories as if they had been there (because they had!), and wiled away countless hours on that side porch with the rest of us. For that matter, they were even at family events that were not at my grandmother’s house. They were just part of the family.

 

Mrs. Cochran was the first to pass away. I don’t recall when, but I do recall the loss. Wondering what visiting to Tennessee would be like without her: the woman who apologized profusely for bringing store bought ice cream to a church ice cream social because her churn wouldn’t work. That is certainly not something a proper Southern woman would ever do, but of course she was forgiven. They just don’t make ice cream churns like they use to. Visiting wasn’t the same without her. I would look over at her house and resent whoever it was that now lived there. It wasn’t right. Some things just shouldn’t change.

 

My grandmother died in October of 2016. When Ed, Emry and I drove down from Pittsburgh for her funeral, we stayed with Mrs. Little. I had been in Mrs. Little’s house before, but mostly when one visited Mrs. Little you just sat in the old chairs in the garage (where the car was never parked). It was so gracious of her to put us up in her own bedroom, brimming over with Southern hospitality as she walked about with her cane and told us stories of when she was younger. I remember thinking how difficult it must be for her having outlived both Mrs. Cochran and my grandmother, but she mourned in private as any Southern lady does. She was always cheerful and happy as she fed us breakfast or asked us about our lives in Pittsburgh. Even though I hoped we could return on a happier occasion and visit with her again, I rather knew I would probably never see Mrs. Little alive again. Not when she would turn 90 a week after we left.

 

This weekend, my mom told me Mrs. Little has been put on hospice. She had been moved to an assisted living home in recent months just for her own safety, but she’s perfectly cognizant and full of memories. So, friends would come and take her back to her home just so she could be there to visit with people, and then take her back to the assisted living. She has cancer, though, and it’s only a matter of time. 

 

I don’t know who lives in Mrs. Cochran’s house now. Someone bought, fixed up and flipped my grandmother’s home. Now the same fate likely awaits Mrs. Little’s house. One day I will take my kids to Lewisburg. One day I will show them the places I loved as a kid, the places my mom and dad loved growing up, the places that are a part of me…and so a part of them. But when I take them to see their great-grandmother’s house and tell them about her, and Mrs. Cochran, and Mrs. Little, I will cry...as I am crying now. An era has ended. A part of my life has come to a close. And all that’s left is the memories I can share with them.

My Teachers: Mrs. Edwards

This past week at work I needed to charter a bus for a tour some of our employees are conducting through a town outside of Pittsburgh for a comp plan they are working on. This led to a whole discussion on what to properly call different size buses…which then led to an exchange of our memories of riding school buses. By far, one of my more memorable daily school bus rides was the first half of third grade in Lewisburg, Tennessee. The previous year, the new elementary school had been built on the other side and up the hill from the back field of our house. It would have been a very easy walk up the mown trail to school each day, but I was honestly too scared to do it. And since the bus would pick me up, drive the quarter mile around the corner, and drop me off…well, who needed to walk? But as I was the last one to get picked up, but the first to be dropped off, my selection of seats was limited. So I would squeeze into the one free: right next to two middle school best friends. They reminded me of the villains in 101 Dalmatians: one was short and stout and the other tall and skinny. Both gave me the evil eye the whole two minutes I squeezed beside them. Talk about a miserable start to your day!

 

But third grade itself wasn’t bad, although it would be my first run in with bullies: namely a 4^thgrader who thought I was fun to pick on the few times I would run into her. I could say she was racist, but it’s not politically correct to say racism goes both ways. And I can’t say she hated me because I was white…it was probably more likely because I would cower. I don’t know why, except she was bigger and I have a mortal fear of being noticed. So, to be singled out even to be scoffed at…well, I wasn’t a fan. I just wanted to be left alone! Thankfully our run-ins can be counted on one hand. And while it left it’s mark on my memory, I certainly never valued myself through her eyes. For school, as a whole, was a good experience.

 

Again, Mrs. Edwards had gone to school with my parents or something. She certainly knew who I was, who my parents were, and who my grandmother was. Even more disconcerting, so did the new principal of the school. At that time, it never occurred to me that the principal of Marshall County had also known exactly who I was. Probably because she never singled me out, but I clearly remember this principal singling me out when he happened to be in the hall the same time as our class. It was nothing new to be “Mrs. Ogilvie’s granddaughter”, but it was new that the principal brought that to the attention of everyone within hearing range. So much for being unnoticed!

 

Third grade was a novelty and I’m not sure if that was because of Mrs. Edwards or because it was a new school and we were now “older”. We had lockers in our classrooms instead of a cloakroom. They were half lockers and I worried my entire four months there how I was to get my new winter coat to fit in it. I was very proud of that pink store-bought coat with a teal scarf, but it went down to my knees and I was convinced it would not fit in my locker. Since it was Tennessee, though, and we moved just after Christmas it never got cold enough to test my theory. 

 

We also didn’t have a bathroom in the classroom. They were down the hall. I had another fear I’d get in trouble for taking too long in the bathroom. Other kids did. Of course, they were goofing off while I was going as fast as I could lest I get scolded! We didn’t have as many fun school supplies, we switched classes twice (well, I only switched for reading and just across the hall as Mrs. Edwards was my math teacher as well as “homeroom” teacher). Another fear: getting lost going to my other class. Like you can get lost when you never even left the third-grade hallway! 

 

Mrs. Edwards also had higher expectations of homework, turning things in on time, and doing our work neatly. I don’t know if this was just her teaching style or the marker set for third grade. I just remember I would use most of my spare time in class getting ahead on my homework. For I had yet another fear of not turning it in on time and getting my name put on the board. I remember a couple of my friends thinking I was crazy to be doing my math homework instead of some fun art project. “Missa, you can do it at home!” I remember Katie Lovett telling me. Instead, I did it in school and would finish everything so early Mrs. Edwards would set me to grading things or helping her with a bulletin board. I think some kids took that as favoritism. It was probably more keeping me busy, and I liked doing those kinds of things so it drove me even more to finish my homework in school. 

 

Looking back, with all my fears I should have probably had therapy in third grade! At the same time, starting my third grade year in a new school with lots of new experiences prepared me for the school I would attend when we moved from Tennessee to New Hampshire the day after Christmas. While there was a lot of new experiences, I had the same old friends and familiar out of school activities. After Christmas break, all that would change!

 

Me in 3^rdgrade: classic 80’s side ponytail and baggy sweater with weird geometric shapes in wild colors!

Dear Ellyson,

 

Today you are two years old. I have survived to see this day: although much more exhausted than I thought possible!

 

For you are the one that keeps me on my toes! You are constantly going, constantly into something, constantly challenging me in a way neither Emry or Ethan ever did. I know some of it is you see your older siblings doing something so you think, “Well, I can do that, too,” even if you are half their size. In some ways that can be good: I’m a strong supporter of being independent. In other ways, it’s just one more thing for me to keep an eye on!

 

You are also a walking disaster area. On any given day, I can wander through our house and see trails of this toy, that toy, or whatever you managed to get a hold of spread across several rooms. Nothing is off limits as far as you’re concerned. If you can reach it, it’s fair game. I dream of the day when I will have a house where I can put things out of your reach…and then remember by the time that day is likely to come you won’t be getting into those things anymore! Sigh.

 

You have a quirky personality. I guess we all do. But I love to see you line things up or stack your blocks very neatly. You like to put things like that in order. However, if I ask you to clean up the Monopoly pieces you just scattered all over Ethan’s room, you huff, shake your head, mumble something, and try to walk away. I don’t get how someone who likes to line up rocks by the creek hates to clean up a mess! 

 

Your favorite toys are your baby dolls. You have your own…and you have the one you more-or-less stole from Emry. You like to cuddle them, coo over them and take care of them. You also like to “cook” and be housewife-ly with the few play kitchen stuff we have. Your maternal, like small animals (especially “lattles” as you call cats for some unknown reason), and if someone gets hurt, you are there to give them a hug.

 

You have your own vocabulary. Mostly, “Where it go?” and then a very enthusiastic, “There it is!” Also a very firm, “Yes!” or a shake of the head for “no”. (As I recently told someone, there is no maybe in your world.) And when you can’t find the right words, you certainly have the right fluctuation of tone as you ramble off meaningless words. Sometimes that’s an attempt to count your fingers. Most often it’s wagging your finger and yelling at Ethan because he’s arguing with Emry. You are always very quick to defend what you perceive as injustice.

 

You also love music and watching Cocomelonon my phone. Maybe it’s not the wisest of parenting choices to allow you to watch this whenever I really need you out from under my feet, but often the songs remind me of my own grandmother singling them. And you have learned a lot from them. I love watching you do the motions of The Wheels on the Bus, or Make a Funny Face,or blowing down the house with the Big Bad Wolf.

 

Of course you are very different from your brother and sister before you, especially your sister. You’re affectionate, you’re not afraid to show exactly what you’re feeling, and you simply are who you are. Some of this, sadly, you will grow out of. However, I think you will always be more that way than I am. And I’m glad. For as tired as I am by the end of a day with you, you are exactly what God created you to be. And I hope you always know that.

 

Love, Mama