Month: May 2021

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Max Hein Scores Again!

My grandson’s name is Maxfield, but everyone calls him Max. Born six weeks premature, he is one tough dude. Max weighed just three pounds when he was born. He was determined to make it. And he did. 

I came home from Mexico soon after Max was born and rented an apartment close enough to walk to the hospital every day. I looked at him through the incubator and watched his skinny little chest rise and fall with every breath. I marveled at the number of tubes in his tiny body. I told him that I was proud of him. I always will be.

As a little boy, Max had asthma but that didn’t stop him. One day Jason was driving home from work and spotted a little boy up in a tree, where he obviously didn’t belong. As  he turned the corner, the boy fell out of the tree, dusted himself off and walked away. That’s Max.

When he was in elementary school, Max went to a week-long, sleep-away camp for children with asthma. The motto of the camp was” “No excuses, no adaptations, no whining” (or something like that.) Max, of course, loved it.

Up in the mountains, high above Denver, Max went hiking, kayaking and swimming. He tried archery and lacrosse for the first time. He played baseball, slept in a cabin and made friends with everyone. That’s Max.  

Max has so much athletic ability, I wonder if he really belongs in our family. He looks a lot like Jason did as a little boy, except with jet black hair and dark chocolate eyes.  Max is one of those children who learns a new sport just by watching.

In elementary school, he took gymnastic lessons and wowed both me and his instructor with his ability to do tricks the first time he tried. In middle school, he ran track and easily sprinted to the finish line at every meet. If Max were a race horse, he would come from behind in every race and win the Triple Crown.

Max has played baseball every summer since joining an Aurora Recreation team in third grade. He runs like the wind and easily slides into base. Max goes home from every game with the dirtiest white pants on his team. When he’s not covering first base or the outfield, he pitches.

In his free time, Max likes to go to Skate City and roller blade for hours. He’s also a great dancer. One time he tried to teach me to “floss” ~ the dance move, not my teeth. 

Max has boundless energy and a happy disposition. He loves his family and his friends. Max turns fourteen on June 1st. FOURTEEN! Next year he will be in high school. That tiny baby is now taller than I am. His hands and feet are bigger than Jason’s. 

I know Max misses his Mom. Kortnee died when Max was in third grade. I asked Max what he missed most about her. “Her hugs,” was his answer. I’m sure that’s true. Now Max, like his Mom, is a great “hugger.” A hug from Max feels like warm sun on a cold winter day.

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Doc ~ A Tribute To My Father

They called him “Doc.”  As a Pharmacist Mate 3, my father was the highest ranking medical officer on his ship ~ an LST (Tank Landing Ship) used during WWII.

Dad graduated from pharmacy college at the University of Minnesota in June, 1941. Pearl Harbor was attacked six months later. My father knew he didn’t want to be drafted into the Army, so he enlisted in the Navy in June, 1942. He was twenty-four years old.

Dad did not go through traditional “boot camp” but was sent, instead, for medical training at the Great Lakes Naval Hospital, north of Chicago. His first assignment was the Brooklyn Naval Hospital and my mother joined him there.

My father was transferred to Geneva, New York, where I was born in May. In June, 1943, Dad was sent to Maryland for amphibious training and my mother and I went to live with Dad’s family in St. Paul.

Dad was assigned to LST 492. It would be his home for the next two years. The ship was commissioned on December 8, 1943 and immediately sailed to England, to prepare for the first wave on Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944. 

The following is from an article written by David Chrisinger, published in the New York Times Magazine, June 5, 2019:

“Most of the men in the first wave never stood a chance. In the predawn darkness of June 6, 1944, thousands of American soldiers crawled down swaying cargo nets and thudded into steel landing craft bound for the Normandy coast.”

My father’s ship was one of those landing crafts. When they reach Normandy, the doors to the LST swung open. Tanks, and soldiers rolled into the ocean. As a medical officer, my father stay on the ship with the other sailors, waiting to treat wounded American soldiers and German prisoners of war.

“Allied troops kept landing, wave after wave, and by midday they had crossed the 300 yards of sandy killing ground, scaled the bluffs and overpowered the German defenses. By the end of the day, the beaches had been secured and the heaviest fighting had moved at least a mile inland.

In the biggest and most complicated amphibious operation in military history, it wasn’t bombs, artillery or tanks that overwhelmed the Germans; it was men — many of them boys, really — slogging up the beaches and crawling over the corpses of their friends that won the Allies a toehold at the western edge of Europe.” ~ David Chrisinger

This week  I came across a letter, written by Lt. Commander, Ralph Newman, commander of the LST 492, to my mother on July 4, 1944:

“Dear Mrs. Jones, I would like to take this opportunity to write a few words about your husband, Robert. We point with some pride to the record of the good old 492. No one has so much as broken a little finger. And no one has more friends than Bob. The “doc” has the respect of his officers and shipmates, alike.’

From Normandy, the LST 492 traveled to North Africa, Italy and Sicily, with German POW’s still onboard. On August 15, 1944, the ship was part of the second D-Day invasion, Operation Dragoon, an assault against German forces in Southern France that eventually led to the liberation of Paris.

After leaving the  south of  France in September, 1944, the LST 492 was assigned to the Pacific fleet and traveled to Hawaii, Guam, the Philippines and the Wake Islands. The ship was based in Okinawa. Japan, as bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

When asked about his feelings about the atom bomb, my father wrote, “I felt relieved that the war was going to be terminated and I could return to my family and my normal lifestyle. I was happy only for myself. I had no feelings for the eventual consequences of it. I suppose that was selfish. Now I don’t believe it was justified.”

After the war, my father returned to Minnesota and his family. He seldom spoke of his time in the Navy. He went to work at Swanson Drug in St. Paul, where he worked as a pharmacist for almost forty-five years. 

My father has always been a kind-hearted, quiet man. I can’t imagine how difficult war must have been for him. But he was also a man who always did what he was called upon to do. Later, reflecting back on his time in the Navy, my father commented that  he felt that WWII was necessary to defeat Hitler. But overall, he was opposed to all wars. He believed they were  “senseless.”

Every year, on Memorial Day, my father took his trumpet out of its case, stood outside in the dark, and played Taps. I know he was thinking of his days on the LST 492,  as those sweet sounds floated through the air for all the neighbors to hear. 

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Chance ~ A Boy With Magic In His Heart

Some children are born with a touch of magic . My oldest grandson, Connor, believed in leprechauns. My youngest one, Max,  believed in Elf on the Shelf. Chance, my middle grandson IS a leprechaun and the Christmas Elf, rolled into one.

Chance is cute and charming, with an incredibly kind heart and a vivid imagination. As an only child, Chance’s best friend has always been his creativity. An early, voracious reader, he devoured fantasy books. While other students were kicking a soccer ball around the playground at recess, Chance and his friends were playing elaborate games that involved dragons, heroes and villains. 

I once asked Chance what he wanted to be when he grew up. “A librarian and a spy,” was his answer. “That’s good,” I thought. I’ve met a number of librarians who had the same double major.

For a while, Chance wanted to be a pirate, after playing the part of the drunken sailor, Mr. Smee, in his preschool rendition of Peter Pan.

Some years later, Chance came to Mexico with his parents and met up with me and Neto in Sayulita. While his parents were swimming in the ocean, Chance stayed back with us. He put his hand on Neto’s knee and said, “Someday I’m going to build a pirate ship that flies through the sky. Only special people can get on board. But you two ~ you will definitely be part of my crew.”

The highlight of my summers, when Chance was little, were the weeks he spent with me while he attended camp at the Denver Zoo and the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. One summer I told him I wanted to build a fairy garden, and he was “all-in.” We went to the local nursery to pick out a fairy castle. Chance dug through his stash of miniature cars and found a golf cart and a convertible to add to the mix. We installed a tiny bird bath, an outdoor table, and some benches. Every year, when I set up the fairy garden again, I think of Chance and smile. 

In middle school, Chance went to a week-long camp at UC-Boulder and again stayed with me. We spent a couple nights in Boulder, rather than make the drive to and from Aurora every day. What fun! Our apartment was designed to look like a tree-house, complete with a swing suspended from the ceiling. We felt like two birds, high up in the trees. It was a perfect get-away for a boy with a vivid imagination and his grandmother, who sometimes likes to pretend she’s a bird, too.  

Chance  lives in Fraser, with his parents, Garth and Bethany, and goes to Middle Park High School in Granby. He studies hard, operates the sound board for school plays, and volunteers  in his community. He holds down a job washing dishes at a local restaurant, skis in the winter and rides his mountain bike in the summer. In his spare time ~ meager that it is ~ he collects Magic Cards and goes to Magic Card game nights with his friends.

Next year, Chance will be a high school senior. I love our FaceTime calls. Chance reads my blog every week and he is my go-to person for computer help. He’s thinking about where he wants to go to college and may go somewhere far away. I will miss him.

Wherever the journey takes him, I know that Chance will thrive. He will work hard and maintain his kind, generous spirit. I hope he keeps his imagination alive. I hope that Neto and I will always be part of his pirate crew.

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The Woman Who Lived In a Little House

My mother, Marianne Jones, grew up in North St. Paul, Minnesota. Her father, my grandfather, was a huge, strong German man ~  the oldest of eight children. His parents were early pioneer farmers in St. Paul. When his father died at an early age, my grandfather was left in charge of the farm and the younger children. He valued hard-work and saving money. He was a distant, loud, often difficult man.

Grandpa and Grandma were married when he was twenty-six and she was eighteen. He started a successful sauerkraut and pickle factory that same year, but his heart wasn’t in it. After sixteen years of running the factory, he sold the business and bought a farm. By this time, he had six strong sons and two daughters, including my mother, who was the youngest.

My grandmother was the sixth oldest of ten children. Her brothers were fun-loving, charming, and often irresponsible with money, which infuriated my grandfather. My grandparents argued a lot of the time, usually about money and raising children.

My grandfather worried constantly and was a harsh disciplinarian. My grandmother was in poor health, and often worn-out from cooking, cleaning and raising eight children. Although there was always enough food and warm clothing, the children learned to look elsewhere for attention and affection.

My mother reported  that her early life was good, however, because she enjoyed being with her brothers and playing with all the animals on the farm. She liked to roam the fields and pretend she was running away from home.

When my mother was ten years old, her older brother, Frank, age sixteen, died of a ruptured  appendix. My mother wrote: After that everything seemed to change. Frank was a sensitive, intelligent boy whom everyone loved. My mother grieved a great deal and my father became morose. He seemed to feel that everything was against him.

As was typical at that time, my mother’s family never referred to this tragedy.  My mother felt especially guilty when she remembered that one time she took a nickel from Frank’s piggy bank. 

My mother was a good student. She loved being in school plays and had a beautiful singing voice. She was outgoing, with a good sense of humor, and she had a lot of friends.. She remarked that she could have done better, academically, but knew that college was out of the question for her, so she concentrated on having fun instead.

This is my mother’s memory of meeting my father: When I was seventeen, and a senior in high school, I met the man I was to marry. He was playing his trumpet in a three-piece combo in one of the local hangouts. I can picture him now as I saw him then ~ on a platform high above us, magnificent in his black tuxedo with a blue cumber bun, blowing his trumpet and setting the pace for the Saturday night celebrators. I was out with his best friend and we were making our last stop of the evening. Is there a fate that destines our future? I think so. Is there love at first sight? I know there is. This particularly beautiful human being was the answer to my prayers.”

My father’s family was very different from my mother’s. Dad was raised in a middle-class family, in which every child went to college. My mother’s family were farmers, often with dirt under their fingernails. My father’s family were gentle people, while my mother smoked cigarettes and swore like a sailor (but never in front of my grandparents!) Dad was emotional, and cried easily. My mother wouldn’t shed a tear.

My parents loved each other and never argued. My mother appreciated that my Dad worked hard and gave her a good life, filled with thoughtful gifts and trips to interesting places. But she knew that my father’s family never truly accepted her. The fact that my personality was more like my father’s and not much like hers, created friction between us.

My father died when he was seventy-nine and my mother was seventy-five. From that day forward, she considered herself old and frail. She went to the doctor and asked for handicapped license plates. When the doctor said, “Marianne, I don’t know what your handicap is,” she answered, “put down that I’m old.” She was younger than I am now!

Mom taught me a lot. She taught me to work hard, to cook and to sew. She had an exceedingly fine mind for politics. She loved watching the news, especially CNN and C-Span.

Mom was supportive when I told her I was moving to Denver. She came to visit me every year and my boys spent summers in Minnesota while they were were growing up. Mom was excited when I told her I was moving to Mexico, and twice she came to visit me while I was there.

My mother died of pneumonia at the age of 96. She knew she was dying. She told her doctors to take her off antibiotics and let her die in peace. By the time I reached her, she was already unconscious. I hope she was able to hear me when held her hand and told her I loved her. I always will.

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Happy Birthday, Garth!

Most people, I believe, don’t really know what love is until they have their first child. People without children maybe experience the same joy when they first fall in love, or adopt a wonderful pet, or climb a mountain. I hope so.

For me, the first time I looked at my baby, Garth, on May 8, 1969, my heart exploded. I thought I knew what love was. I loved his father, but this love was different. When Garth was born, I would never be the same person again. I became a person who thought about him, day and night. A person who wanted only the best for him ~ even if I didn’t always know what that was. A person who would kill a mountain lion, if necessary, to keep him safe.

Jim and I lived in Idledale, Colorado, a small town in the foothills near Denver. Beginning May 1st, it rained every day. Flash floods caused the creek to overflow and flood the only road into Denver. Because I was close to my due date, the doctor suggested we find a place to stay in Denver, rather than taking a chance on not being able to get to a hospital in time. 

The afternoon of May 7th, I saw a doctor for early labor pains. The doctor thought maybe it was a false alarm and told Jim to take me out to dinner and get me a few “stiff drinks.” 

“If this is not true labor, the alcohol will stop the pain. If it really is labor, come back and we’ll deliver the baby.” 

Remember, this was 1969. Times have changed! Back then women drank and even smoked when they were pregnant. There was no way to know the gender of the baby, until s/he was born. “Natural childbirth” wasn’t a serious consideration until later, in the 1970’s.

Jim and I had a nice meal and a few drinks. Maybe I wasn’t actually drunk, but I certainly wasn’t sober, when we  walked into Jim’s parents’ house in Denver. At three in the morning, I awoke in full-blown labor and still tipsy. We checked into the hospital and Garth was born a few hours later. 

Garth was an easy, fun boy to raise. He grew up fast. He watched his little brother when I was working. He worked hard in school. At the age of thirteen, he took a bus ride from Denver to Minnesota by himself, changing bus stations in Des Moines. He went to work as a cook at a golf course when he was fourteen ~ a job he kept throughout high school. When my back gave out on a trip to the 1984 Olympics. Garth drove us all the way to Los Angeles and back to Denver, with just his learner’s permit. 

In many ways, Garth was lucky he inherited the genes he did. He has my ability to organize stuff and his father’s ability to fix things. Thank goodness it wasn’t the other way around! With his ready smile and quick wit, Garth is one of the funniest people I know.

Now Garth works as  an engineer with the Aurora Fire Department and drives a really big truck. He lives in Winter Park, where he skis in the winter and races mountain bikes in the summer. He is a good husband to Bethany, and a good father to  Chance. In his free time, he’s a volunteer DJ with the Winter Park public radio station. 

Garth was born fifty-two years ago. To me, he will always be that baby who stole my heart the day the doctor announced, “It’s a boy!”

Happy Birthday, Garth! You’ve always made me proud.