Old Pictures

Looking through old pictures can be fun…if you know who the people are. I like looking at old pictures of my family as long as someone can tell me who some of the really old people are. When we were in North Carolina a few weeks ago, I enjoyed looking through most of the old pictures Ed and I dumped out of the boxes. But when you don’t know who “Cousin David” is, they don’t mean a lot to you.

But looking at old pictures of Ed was fun. I had seen some pictures of him in his teens and twenties, but I hadn’t seen any from when he was a kid. Although a firstborn, he didn’t grow up with a camera ever pointing at him like I did. So, there weren’t a whole lot. Still, I learned a few things:

1)    He was around when the transition was made from the black-and-white world to dull color. And then from dull color (when I arrived in the world) to the bright color we know today. (Isn’t it funny that when we look at old pictures we really think those people lived in black-and-white or dulled hues of colors?)

2)    Our child will probably be blond to begin his or her life since both of us were. (I just hope it lasts a bit longer than mine did.)

3)    He looks very much like he did as a kid. (I can’t always see myself in my old pictures.)

The funniest thing is, even though we’re nearly six years apart in age, some of his pictures reminded me of some of my old pictures. And I thought I’d share!

Thirty Years Ago

What do I remember about November 4, 1984? Growing up, I knew I had one complete memory: I was taken from the bed in the hotel room and placed in the back seat of the station wagon. Dad then put Katey in next to me, her yellow blanket the one color I can vividly remember from that dark night.

Until I was fifteen years of age, I thought that was all I remembered about that night in Emporia, Kansas. I had dreams of a hospital, and an old man, and a waiting room with magazines, and being dressed in clothes that didn’t fit, and losing an official red baseball jacket from my college-baseball-coach uncle that said “Sis” on it. Visions that danced in my head like other nightmares I had as a child.

My mom never talked about it. And I never wanted her to. Going to the cemetery after school as a little girl in Tennessee made for the worse day ever. Standing there, now able to read my grandfather’s name on his stone. And next to that my sister’s name on her stone. William Harris Ogilvie, Jr. Christine Rachel Sturm. They made Mom cry, so I didn’t ask.

I knew I had another sister. I had seen the few pictures we had of her, stillborn. I saw her grave many times a year the three years we lived in Tennessee. And I knew she had changed our lives.

But in 1995, I heard the story. Sitting in the living room of an apartment building in Massachusetts, a young woman asked my mom when she mentioned a ninth child what had happened. It was the first time I had ever heard someone ask. And it was the first – and only – time I heard the story…

And I remembered.

Not just that dark night in the station wagon with Katey and her yellow blanket. I remembered the hospital. I remembered the night guard that watched Katey and I in the waiting room full of magazines. I remembered the meal at McDonald’s and the jackets Dad left in the booth while we went to play on the playground stolen and never seen again. And I remembered wearing Katey’s clothes because Dad didn’t know what belonged to whom. Pieces clicked together in a missing section of the puzzle of my life. And I truly did have another sister.

The story of Christine’s life and death is one of God’s hand of sovereign providence, grace, mercy and how precious a life truly is. Christine was born in Emporia, Kansas at the only hospital in town that delivered babies. We were traveling, coming back from the long weekend in Iowa and headed home to Texas. Christine swallowed something in the womb that made her sick and so made Mom sick. She was born – and died – early Sunday morning, November 4, 1984. Thirty years ago today.

The “incidents” that surrounded her brief life and death were many. A visit that afternoon at the hospital by an old man and his wife – the night guard who had been to church that morning and had come to let my mom know that they and others in their church wanted to help. Offers from friends in Texas to come up and help us drive back down. Gracious notes, many letters, people we hardly knew at the funeral. And four months later, when we moved to Tennessee, my mom’s distant cousin in the funeral business telling her not to worry. He would – and did – see that Christine was moved and placed in a grave next to my grandfather.

Some people change your life. Strangely, it is often those whose lives cross yours briefly that impact you the most. I never saw Christine alive. Never held her. Never played with her like sisters do. But she changed my life. And, one day, I will meet her Heaven. And hold her. And play with her. And rejoice with her.

Memories

“When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not…” – Mark Twain

I’ve been told I have a good memory. I remember a lot about my past, complete with details most people might forget. It’s hard to say if that is true since that’s simply how I remember. And, honestly, memories are based solely upon how you saw something – and no one sees the same event the same way.

I was four years old…four months away from turning five. I don’t know how spur-of-the-moment the trip was, but Dad had business in Iowa where my grandparents – his parents – lived. My Aunt Jacque was still at home with my grandparents, Aunt Boo lived nearby and Aunt Camille was visiting from Florida. So, we decided to drive up there as a family. Me, Mom, Dad and just-turned-two-years-old Katey.

I don’t remember my grandparent’s house in Iowa very clearly. I remember being told a troll lived in the basement. Being quite familiar with the story “Three Billy Goats Gruff”, you can imagine I didn’t want to venture into the basement. But I did with one of my aunts to find the Etch-a-Sketch. The troll was simply one of those little naked toys with bright pink hair.

I remember one of the bedrooms. I joined Aunt Jacque and Aunt Camille on the bed to watch television. Desiring to be as “cool” as my nineteen-year-old Aunt Jacque, I copied how she stretched out on her stomach, her chin resting on her hands and her legs up in a ninety-degree angle, ankles crossed. When she put her legs down, I put mine down. Aunt Camille noticed and laughed, but when you’re four you’re not very self-conscious and I just kept right on being “cool”.

I remember the kitchen, although I can’t say I ever stepped foot in it. When your grandmother’s dog – Pierre – sat in there threatening to bite your hand or foot off if you crossed the doorway, you just didn’t venture in.

And I very clearly remember Grandma spending hours brushing out my doll Kate’s hair. As with most dolls of the 80’s, Kate’s hair was only silky and blond when first out of the box. It soon became not-so-blond and matted. But Grandma insisted it needed to be silky again and brushed, and brushed, and brushed.

In Iowa I learned that Flea Markets don’t actually sell fleas (even though Dad said so and I kept looking for them), I got a crocheted bunny pin I had on a jacket for a long time and I got my first bike which was my dad’s old one with training wheels that wobbled and we put blocks of wood on the pedals so I could reach.

At least, these are the things I remember.

Pictures prove that Katey and I dressed up as cowboys that Halloween. I had real cowboy boots and a cowboy hat along with my jeans and real cowboy shirt. The mustache had to be painted on. And I didn’t have a horse. But that didn’t matter since they ride tractors in Iowa. We didn’t go trick-or-treating. Instead, we went to what I think was my grandparent’s church to a party.

I remember the party being in the basement, with round tables and kind of spooky lights – or maybe just not enough light. I’m sure we ate candy and other treats, but the only thing I truly remember was my opportunity to bob for apples for the very first time. It’s a lot harder than it looks. And as I was not willing to duck my entire head into the bucket of water, I didn’t catch one. But I did get a bite out of one, which wasn’t bad for a four-year-old.

Perhaps some of these memories are dreams…but when lined up next to the dreamlike memories I have of the events that occurred within the next four days, I don’t think they are. Because I learned a dozen years after that fall of 1984 that what I had thought were dreams were the dark memories of a four-year-old. Memories that have shaped my life ever since…

Counting Weeks

As we all know, there are all kinds of common questions in this world:

As a kid: “What is your favorite subject in school?”

As a senior in high school: “What are you going to do when you graduate?”

As a senior in college: “So, what are you going to do with your life now?”

As an engaged person: “When’s the date?”

And as a pregnant woman: “How many weeks are you?”

This last question has been more than a little bizarre to me as I have to memorize how many weeks along I am (or look stupid) and so do something that is completely counter-intuitive.

I mean, think about it, we count DOWN to everything. We count down days to Christmas, days to our birthday, days to when school lets out, days to our vacations and even days to when our taxes are due. Even the Bible tells us to “number our days” because they are evil and we will surely die. Thus, as closely as we are able to figure, we count down to death.

And yet, we count UP when we are pregnant.  I don’t have 28 weeks left, I am 16 weeks pregnant. I add, not subtract. (Which just makes things worse during this first trimester…I would much rather have said a few weeks ago, “I have only 3 weeks of this left!” instead of “I’m 11 long weeks into this.”) I mean, wouldn’t it be much more exciting to hang a paper chain around our spare bedroom (that will be the nursery) and take a link off every week we get closer to this little one arriving? Instead, it’s like I’m adding links and wondering if there’s an end to it.

But maybe it’s just practice. I mean, once the baby arrives the constant question will be “How old is the baby?” And you’ll first add weeks again…and then months…and won’t actually turn to years until they’re two or so because either 1) it sounds so much more important to say 21 months versus 1 year or 2) we get as far as 24 months and can’t remember what number comes after that.

So, several times every week I remember how many weeks along I am into this journey because someone is bound to ask and I don’t want to look stupid because I’m not sure and would rather just say happily that he/she will arrive in April. And while that’s nice, I still think it would be much nicer to tell how many weeks I have left and rejoice that the arrival is getting closer and closer…

New River Gorge

On our way home from North Carolina, we stopped in West Virginia at New River Gorge. Apparently, this is a tradition in Ed’s family – a great half way point from Charlotte to Pittsburgh. It was well worth the stop, especially on such a lovely autumn day:

New River Gorge Bridge – the tallest arch bridge in the Western Hemisphere.

  

The gorge – and a beautiful autumn day!