Tag Archives: grandma

A great lady passes

Jackie Wells-Fauth

When I got married, I supposed that I would find my mother-in-law, Millie, to be irritating or at best, tolerable. We aren’t supposed to be all that crazy about our mothers-in-law, are we? That is a normal attitude towards mothers-in-law.

Except my mother-in-law was not at all what I expected. She was, at first, quiet and demure and she did not interfere at all with my marriage. I appreciated her hands off attitude, but it soon became apparent that this was not at all what she was really like. She was not necessarily quiet and demure; she was so sweet and a whole lot of fun to be around.

Her support for me in my marriage and her unwavering friendship have been of great value to me. She loved my children as well with that quiet, always supportive attitude and they grew up appreciating her kindnesses as well. Stefanie wanted her name to be Crystal–she complained to Grandma and the next thing you knew, Stefanie had a T-shirt from Grandma that had Crystal, written in sparkly crystals, across the front. Stefanie was delighted and wore it out. Tracie didn’t care so much for rhubarb kuchen and told her grandma she thought chocolate chips would be better. Grandma quietly made chocolate chip kuchen just for her (nobody else wanted it) and Tracie was charmed.

Nothing she did was splashy. She would come to my house and stand doing the dishes after a meal. That made me nervous, because she was a much neater housekeeper than I. She never said a word about my housekeeping, although I was amused to see her surreptitiously wiping the tops of the cupboards or swiping quickly behind the faucet, places I never got to—but she did it quietly and automatically and without critical remarks and attitudes.

She was a beautiful seamstress, making clothes for the girls, including when she and my mother collaborated in the construction of Renaissance dresses for my daughters.  She also altered just about anything. When Roy had a project, he would say with confidence, “Mom can do this.” She always did. When I could not figure out how we were even going to begin on the wedding dress Stefanie had chosen, I took her with me to Stef’s for a weekend and by the end of that time, just like that, a wedding dress was underway.

She was also a dynamite cook, with a real talent for kuchen. She once made enough for an entire wedding reception, no mean feat, I can tell you! Watching her prepare meals in her spotless kitchen was always an experience. I told her once that I had used her work–fixing and presenting a meal–to my classes as an example of visual artistry. She laughed so hard at that, as she continued to so gracefully stir and bake and boil and peel in her seamless, graceful way of presenting a meal. She once told me that she was not a very good cook, and it was my turn to laugh uproariously. She never thought of herself as talented or skilled, but she was in so many ways.

She was a wonderful painter. On one of our last conversations together, I told her my girls—who both have paintings and many pieces of artistry from her themselves, were having a lively discussion over who would get the paintings she has given to Roy and I.  She responded,  “Oh, well, that’s nothing to bother about. Once you don’t want them anymore, they may not have space for them anyway!” It was amazing that she really didn’t realize that I would lock my children out of my house before I would willingly give up her art works while I’m alive and my daughters will clear anything they have on their walls to hang her creations.

She loved to travel and was still agile at the age of 84, when she determined to climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty for the second time in her life. She made it, too, while I gave up about three quarters of the way and then cursed her for making me look bad. She just laughed and kept on going.

Millie passed away this week, and did so right where she wanted to be, in her own home. Roy and I had just landed in Amsterdam at the start of our long-planned trip to Europe. So, we began our trip by sitting in a Dutch airport, crying copiously in front of strangers. We continued the trip because so much had gone into it and I think Millie would have been sorry to be the reason we ditched and went home, but she was with us the whole way.

 I will miss Millie so much not because she was my mother-in-law, but because she was my friend, my confidante and the most human person I have ever had the privilege to know.

The world is a little poorer now, because a great lady has passed.

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It’s Finally Happening…

 

Before I say anything on this subject, let me assure you that I know what Easter is truly about. I know it’s not about the Easter bunny or who wore what to church or anything like that. I know Easter is the celebration of the fact that my Redeemer lives. Having said that, I have a few more comments on the holiday.

As a child growing up, Easter was always the time of year when we got new clothes—something fancy for Easter, because my mother insisted that new clothes on Easter Sunday was an important tradition.

For me, it was more often the cramming of my body into clothing that was stiff and new and most definitely not of my choosing. There are pictures of me as a child in little green sailor dresses and pastel plaid skirts with pleats and little headbands full of flowers, etc., you get the picture.

Worst of all, believe it or not, were the shoes and stockings. We couldn’t just wear regular ones—it was either socks with stiff decorations on them that made my ankles itch, or even worse, white panty-hose stockings that made my legs itch all over and which invariably had a large blot of mud on them somewhere that I got by climbing carelessly out of a farm vehicle. The shoes were no better, white patent leather, black patent leather, it didn’t matter. They were stiff, uncomfortable and frequently made my stockings snag.

My mother dressed me up in these outfits in the name of “Easter Sunday Fashion.” She couldn’t help it; it’s what her mother did to her and probably what Grandmother’s mother did to her. It was a family tradition of misery that went way back, and while we celebrated the Risen Lord, we itched, scratched, tugged and stained our way through that fateful day.

We usually went to some family dinner or another after church, which meant we had to keep those miniature torture chambers on and try not to get our ham dinner on them—for me an impossible task. We were allowed to change into more comfortable clothes after dinner, but usually I was too stubborn for that. I continued to wear the dress-up clothes and sat tugging at my collar and itching my legs while everyone else ran around and had fun in their old jeans.

When my own girls were growing up, I tried once or twice to go the dress up dollies route, but it seemed I was either too broke or too busy to get the job done right. I was pleased with myself. I hadn’t forced my girls to wear silly headbands or gender-defining tights (at least, not very often.) By the time they could voice a real opinion, they thought that if the jeans were Silver Jeans, that was dress-up enough. As for flowery headbands—forget it. I once used ribbon and a headband base to make them fancy, braided, elegant headbands with elaborate bows on the ends. Those little engineers were far more interested in how they had been made than how they would look in their hair. It took little time for them to deconstruct them, discard the headband base and use the ribbon for something more fun—like, decorating the dog!

No, I was not like my mother. I was not going to force my daughters to dress up as I had to. I was feeling pretty smug about this until today. Today, I was sent a picture of my grandsons, enjoying the Easter holiday. And what were they wearing? Little suit outfits I had sent them crowned by the bunny ears headbands I had put in their Easter baskets.

Hear that splash? That’s the dam breaking as my mother starts to leak through!

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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I’m in Love with George

Before anyone says anything, I know I’m married to Roy. But for a couple of years now, there have also been two little boys in my life…and in addition, there has been a monkey named George. And quite frankly, I love them all, but George has fast become a favorite with me.

For any parent of young children, you know, of course, that the George I refer to is a cartoon monkey named Curious George. George lives with the Man with the Yellow Hat. No name is given for the Man with the Yellow Hat and that is understandable to me. If I were the roommate of a small, mischievous monkey who was clearly smarter than me, I wouldn’t give out my name either!

Royce's Curious George doll

Royce’s Curious George doll

I met George when my older grandson Royce, began watching his morning show on PBS. At first, I will admit I was pretty derisive about the monkey who inevitably caused a mess or colossal misunderstanding and the clueless banana-colored man he lived with. It didn’t take long, though, before I began to see him in a new light.

George is universally well-liked. Of all the characters he runs across in his adventures, only the crabby little dog in the lobby of his building doesn’t like him and even then, they occasionally see eye to eye on things.  George tries to help everyone, he runs errands for his roommate, helps the local businesses solve their various problems and even helps out at the country house.

Through it all, my grandson Royce and then his younger brother Arthur have watched with avid faces and childish giggles the antics of this genial little monkey.  He teaches them math, music, English (even though he only grunts) and most of all, he teaches them that the world is full of wonderful things and they are all right there for them to explore.

Royce and Arthur visit my home regularly, and when they do, we always make time for George, whose qualities of humanity are high, especially for a non-human , and  he is an excellent model of caring compassion, whoever it is. The show is a fetching combination of child-like innocence  and almost genius behavioral lessons.

Royce as Curious George for Halloween

Royce as Curious George for Halloween

Someday, my boys won’t want to watch this wonderful, lovable monkey. I will miss that so much. I will miss their grinning faces and childish laughter. I will miss the fact that Royce never goes to sleep at night without clutching the stuffed version of Curious George I gave him a year ago. But for now, I will be so grateful for the devotion my boys show to their friend, Curious George and I will be even more grateful for the positive and protective influence George has had on my sweet little boys.

So yes, I am in love with a monkey named George and regardless of what the boys eventually decide, I think I always will be.

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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