Category: My Family and Friends

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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.

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Subversive To The End

I’ve written before about some of the more colorful branches on my family tree. Probably my most famous relative is Jeanne Audrey Powers, the first woman ordained an elder in the United Methodist church. 

Unlike my wild Irish uncles, Jeanne Audrey will be remembered for her many good deeds. Unlike my Irish uncles, she never went to jail, was never chased by the FBI, and was, frankly, not nearly as interesting.

Born in 1932 in Mankato, Minnesota, Jeanne Audrey was eleven years older than I was. We have the same great-grandfather, Evan David Jones, who immigrated from Wales. Our grandfathers were brothers. Her mother and my father were first cousins, but they didn’t see each other very often.

Jeanne Audrey lived with her mother, Florence Powers, her two unmarried aunts, Edna and Grace Jones, and her grandmother, Lizzie Jones, in a big house in Mankato, MN. I don’t know what happened to her father. Now, with a renewed interest in genealogy, I might try to find out.

One of my only memories of Jeanne Audrey was at the wedding of my Aunt Shirley. My brother, Bob, and I were part of the wedding. I was six years old and Bob was almost five. It was a large, beautiful wedding. Shirley carried  a huge bouquet of peonies as she walked down the aisle ~ flowers picked from my grandfather’s huge peony garden. Bob and I were both dressed in white and looked cute, except for the black eye on my brother’s face, the result of me slamming the front door on him the day before the wedding. 

The wedding reception was at my grandparent’s home. Bob and I were playing in the back yard, swinging on a big four-person swing that went back and forth, faster and faster, higher and higher, until Jeanne Audrey came to tell us that we needed to stop. She reprimanded us for misbehaving at a wedding. And, to make matters worse, we were having fun all dressed up in wedding clothes. 

Jeanne Audrey must have been wicked smart. After getting her bachelor of science degree at Mankato State University in 1954, she studied theology at Princeton and the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. She also took graduate courses in England, Switzerland and Boston University School of Theology.

I didn’t follow Jeanne Audrey’s career. My family didn’t talk about her very much, although she lived nearby in Minneapolis. I recently read that she was nominated to be a bishop in the Methodist church in 1972 and 1976. Although it was considered an extremely rare honor for a woman to be ordained a bishop, Jeanne Audrey declined both times. She didn’t want people to scrutinize her private life.  

Rev. Jeanne Audrey was a volunteer with The United Methodist Commission on the Status and Role of Women. Throughout her life, she was committed to feminist issues and was a champion for LGBTQ rights. She was well-known for insisting that all language be gender-neutral. She relished the idea of being a “she-ro.”

Jeanne Audrey was a driving force in the Reconciling Ministries Movement. In her final sermon at its national gathering in New York City in 1995, she declared that she was lesbian. The church elders were horrified and Jeanne Audrey was immediately ex-communicated. 

According to a 2018 article, “Wrestling With The Angel of Death” in Sojourners magazine, Cathy Lynn Grosssman wrote, “Jeanne Audrey Powers, 85 years and counting, wanted to stop counting. She felt herself growing more frail, less clear-header. She was losing her sight. Worst of all, the woman who once spoke on international podiums was losing her words.”  

Jeanne Audrey was technically not terminally ill, in spite of a series of mini-strokes. She was not a candidate for hospice but “she was dying to herself, as she knew herself to be.” 

Jeanne Audrey knew that the doctrines of the United Methodist Church included one against suicide, just as it included a doctrine against homosexuality in 1995.  And yet, she bought herself a one-way ticket to Switzerland and died, according to her friends, “at peace with her decision.” in a euthanasia facility. Her final wish was that these words would be etched on her tombstone: Subversive to the End.

Jeanne Audrey declared in her obituary, that her death ended the lineage of the Jones and Powers families. I beg to differ. My grandparents had nineteen grandchildren. We are all still here. 

Rest in Peace, Jeanne Audrey. I’m sorry I never knew you.

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When Irish Eyes Are Smiling!

Next Wednesday is St. Patrick’s Day. I’m writing this story in honor of two strong, amazing, Irish women in my life: My grandmother, Irene Fay, whose mother came from County Sligo, Ireland, and my mother-in-law, Dorothy Gorman, whose mother was born in Hannibal, Missouri.

Irene and Dorothy had a lot in common. Both lost their fathers at a young age. Dorothy’s father died in the flu epidemic of 1918, when she was eight-years-old. Irene’s father was crushed between two train cars, while he was working for the railroad. Irene was in high school at the time. 

Both Irene and Dorothy grew up poor, raised by single mothers, at a time when jobs for women were scarce. As adults, they were hard-working, brave women who loved their spouses, their children and their grandchildren. They also loved to drink, now and then. Dorothy drank wine out of a pretty wine glass. Irene drank whiskey out of a porcelain cup.

I don’t know if Irene Fay was proud of her Irish heritage. My Welsh grandfather didn’t approve of her Irish family. I loved all of them, however, even though they were often in trouble with the law. Grandma died she was seventy years old.

Dorothy, on the other hand, was enormously proud of being Irish. St. Patrick’s Day was the most important day of the year to her and her sister, Margaret. They had their own booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern in downtown Denver. They arrived early and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe. Dorothy died just before her ninety-eighth birthday, still strong-willed and determined to live on her own terms.

One of the sweetest love stories I’ve ever heard was the story Bill Hein told about meeting his Irish sweetheart, Dorothy Gorman, at church, one night in the rain. Here is his story, told in Bill’s own words:

“My Uncle, George Hein and Aunt Mim had already moved to Denver. I stayed with them when I first moved to town. We used to go to church at St. Francis De Sales on South Sherman Street and we always attended the Tuesday night services together. Very quickly I noticed that six young, pretty girls always sat together in the front pew on Tuesday nights.

One Saturday afternoon, I came into church to go to confession. When I was finished, I saw one of the pretty girls from the front pew, praying in the back of the church. And then I noticed that it had started pouring rain outside. 

I ran as fast as I could, through the rain, the two blocks to where my sister, Anne and her husband, John Kastle, lived. I ran right in their door shouting,”Where’s the car keys!”

I jumped in their car and went back to church, dripping wet. When I saw the girl I was looking for, I said, “I wonder if I could take you home? It’s raining outside.”

“Is it?” she answered, as she looked at me, dripping wet from the downpour. She agreed to let me drive her home.

That night we got lost all over South Denver. Dorothy said turn one way, and I turned the other. I didn’t want to take her home just then. I wanted the ride to last forever.

Later, I took Dorothy to Canon City to meet my folks. We were married at St. Francis De Sales Church on June 2, 1937.”

~ Bill Hein

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My Godmother ~ Margaret Jones Maher

Not everyone is lucky enough to have a godmother like my Aunt Margaret. The oldest of my father’s three sisters, she was the picture of love and patience. She was thirteen years older than my Dad and she doted on him. When I came along, the oldest of her nineteen nieces and nephews, she doted on me, too.

Like all four children in my father’s family, Margaret was programmed to go to college. She studied to be a teacher, but her career came to an abrupt halt because she couldn’t discipline even one child, let alone a whole classroom. So she left teaching and went to work as a secretary for the Northern Pacific railroad, the same railroad where my grandfather worked. From all accounts, she was a good secretary because she didn’t have to discipline anyone but herself.

Margaret was a great cook and an exceptional knitter. I have pictures of clothes that she knit for me and my brother ~ skirts and shorts with matching sweaters. Margaret’s knitted afghans sold for the most money at the church bazaar. To my knowledge, she never dropped a stitch.

Margaret, like my Dad, didn’t say much. She was content to sit quietly, smile and murmur her approval of whatever was being said. I loved sitting next to her on the couch, holding her hand, and resting my head on her arm. I know she liked that, too.

Margaret didn’t marry until she was in her late-forties. (More about that later.) She never had children of her own. Given her inability to discipline anyone, that might have been a good thing. 

As I was going through old family photos last summer, however, I stumbled on a batch of pictures showing Margaret with a man, labeled only as “Margaret with her Gentleman Friend.” The pictures show a young, very happy Margaret, with a very handsome man, on vacation somewhere in Arizona. I will never know who he was, where he came from, or what happened to him. I believe he gave her many happy moments. I wish there could have been more.

As I mentioned, when Margaret was in her forties she met Patrick Maher. They were both members of the St. Paul Hiking Club. They shared a love of the outdoors and both could walk for miles. They fell in love and wanted to be married. 

Grandma and Grandpa never approved of Uncle Pat. They were genteel. He was uncouth. They were intelligent and valued education. Pat never fit in. He was a savant. A man who knew the statistics for every sports star and sporting event ever held. My brother would ask him questions that no one knew the answers to, like:

“Uncle Pat, who won the World Series of 1938?”

Pat would answer (trust me, I looked this up!) “The Yankees beat the Cubs in four games in the 1938 World Series.” Then he would go on to recite the statistics for every player in the game. He was a walking encyclopedia of sports. My brother loved it. Pat put the rest of us to sleep.

Margaret and Pat were married in 1952, without the approval of my grandparents. I was at the wedding. Margaret and Pat were beaming. My grandparents were not.

Margaret and Pat rented their own small house after they married. They lived there for only a few years, however. When Grandpa died in 1954, they moved into my grandparents house to take care of Grandma. Grandma died two years later and Margaret and Pat were the new owners of the house at 731 Delaware Avenue.

I stayed in touch with Aunt Margaret when I was in college. She sent me letters and money. Every holiday she sent me boxes of Fanny Farmer candy. 

Margaret’s life took a turn for the worse when she retired from her job with the railroad in 1967, at the age of sixty-two. By this time Aunt Ruthie, had moved into the house with Margaret and Pat. She, too, had little tolerance for Uncle Pat, but she appreciated having a place to live and learned to tolerate him.

I moved to Denver, was married and had my first child when I got a call from my mother.

“Margaret isn’t doing well.”

“Oh, no. what’s the matter?”

“She’s in the mental hospital.”

“For what?”

“For being scrupulous.”

Who ever heard of such a thing? I looked it up. It’s called scrupulosity and Margaret had it. She was convinced she was an evil person, when in fact she was a saint. She was convinced she would go to Hell and there was no way for her to repent. The treatment for scrupulosity, at that time, was electric shock. 

I came home from Denver as soon as I could. I went to see Margaret in the hospital. My sweet, smiling godmother was not smiling. She was in tears. Constant, copious tears. She grabbed my hand and pleaded with me.

“Please, you’ve got to get me out of here. They’re going to give me more shocks. They are going to kill me. And then I’m going to Hell.” There was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do.  

Margaret died when I was back in Denver. My Dad got a phone call from the hospital. He turned to my mother and said “Margaret is dead. I need to go to the hospital. You stay here.” 

Margaret was buried in the Catholic cemetery. I wasn’t able to come home for the funeral to say goodbye to the sweetest, most loving, tender-hearted godmother anyone could wish for.

Rest in Peace, Dear Aunt Margaret. Rest in Peace!

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Thanksgiving 2020 ~ A Day to Remember

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Today I’m remembering Thanksgivings past ~ in both Minnesota, when I was growing up, and later in Colorado. Thanksgiving for me, will always be a melancholy, bittersweet holiday. Although I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving, for me the holiday is as much about loss, as about celebration.

Minnesota Thanksgivings were always at my house. We had a very modest home, without a real dining room. Instead, we had a small, compact table that could extend to hold a lot of people. We set the table up on the porch with the heater going because, after all, this was late November in Minnesota. Grandparents were included until they were no longer with us. Aunts and Uncles were always invited, including my godmother, Aunt Margaret, and her husband, Uncle Pat, my mother’s sister, Aunt Fran, and my cousin Lori. 

My mother did all the cooking, which didn’t make her very happy, even though people always said she was the best cook in the family. Aunt Fran volunteered to bring a loaf of bread. Because most of the people at the table didn’t drink alcohol, it was a very sober meal, made extra quiet because most of the people were painfully shy and didn’t know how to make conversation. My strongest memories were of my Uncle Pat’s outlandishly horrible table manners and the mountain of dishes that needed to be washed, dried and put away after the meal. I missed the people who were no longer there.

My first Thanksgiving away from home was in 1965, as a student at the University of Denver. The small group of students who were not married (I don’t think there were more than ten of us) organized our own Thanksgiving. We ate off paper plates so we wouldn’t have to wash dishes. We had all the traditional foods ~ turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pie ~ and a lot of wine. We laughed a lot and later went to a nightclub for dancing and more drinking. We made the most of the holiday, knowing we would all scatter after graduation.

When I joined the Hein Famly in 1967, I learned what Thanksgiving was supposed to look like. My mother-in-law, Dorothy, loved Thanksgiving. She grew up very poor so having a big table full of food to share made her gleefully happy. The Heins had a big formal dining room and added extra tables, if necessary, to accommodate children, spouses, grandchildren and extra people who were told to “stop by in time for dinner.” Dorothy made it clear that Thanksgiving would always be at her house and we were all expected to be there.

Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, cooked the turkey and guests filled in the menu. The house smelled wonderful and there was a lot of wine, before, during and after dinner. Gradually the table became smaller, as people died and some moved away. We toasted the people who were no longer there until our last Thanksgiving in 2007. Dorothy died the following January, at the age of 97. 

But my strongest Thanksgiving memory was ten years earlier, in 1997. Jason and I had just come home from Dorothy’s, stuffed with turkey and pie. Garth was living in Winter Park. Just as I was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. My sister was on the other end of the line. 

“I need to let you know, Dad just died.” 

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“Mom made Thanksgiving dinner, like she always did. All the dishes were washed and put away. Dad pulled down the shades, sat in his chair, and died of a heart attack.

“That was a very nice Thanksgiving!” were my father’s last words. 

Dad was such a good man, full of gratitude, always able to do what was right. 

Thanksgiving will inevitably be the holiday when I remember Dad and all the other people who are gone from my life. It is a day for good memories, even more than good food. It is a day for sending blessings to those we love.

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Murphy, The Wonder Dog

Six months before leaving for college, my son, Garth, decided to replace himself with a dog. He felt that Jason and I were going to need something to keep us company when he wasn’t around. 

We never discussed getting a dog. Instead, Garth told me that he had called the Basset Rescue Society to request a Basset Hound for our family. He also told them he was my husband because he was afraid they wouldn’t give a dog to a single parent family. And, furthermore, a staff member would be doing a “home visit” in a couple of days to make sure we were a suitable home.

I later learned:

1) The only reason for a home visit was to make sure we had a fenced-in yard. Bassets are notorious for running away.

2) Murphy had “failed” adoption efforts before. The Rescue Society was eager to make this work. They weren’t fussy about marital status.

Murphy arrived a few days later. He was a happy, gregarious adult. In many ways he was like Garth. They were both handsome, cheerful and eager for adventure. They were both kind souls, who made friends wherever they went.

But there were also obvious differences. While Garth was a thoughtful student, meticulously planning for what was coming next, Murphy was a terrible student. He was a clown. He was a stubborn. Every day was a new day. A day to escape, to roam around the neighborhood, to see how much food he could eat and how much trouble he could get into. 

I got used to the telephone ringing before I even knew Murphy was gone. 

“We’ve got your dog.”

“I’m sorry. He must have gotten out again. Where is he?”

“He’s standing here in my kitchen. My wife was cooking hamburger. Your dog pushed open the screen door with his nose and walked in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jason and I took Murphy to obedience school but it was a waste of time and money. While other dogs stood at attention next to their owners, Murphy strolled around the room, smiling at the other dogs, or else plopped at our feet, refusing to move. 

We took Murphy for walks around the neighborhood, determined to get him to walk like a proper dog. But Murphy had other ideas. He didn’t like walking on a leash and he plotted his revenge. He walked nicely as we walked away from home, strutting and wagging his tail at people passing by. But when it was time to return, Murphy sat down. In the middle of the sidewalk. He refused to budge. He wasn’t going anywhere. He definitely wasn’t going home. Jason had to pick him up and carry him. Murphy taught us not to walk very far. Forty pounds is a lot to carry.

Murphy’s most noticeable feature, was his enormous appetite and amazing flatulence. He had the ability to clear a room in an instant with his silent, deadly farts. 

Because of Murphy’s challenging behaviors, I was in frequent contact with the Rescue Society. Their response was always the same:

“It sounds like he’s lonely. We think you should adopt another Basset, so he has some company.”

“Oh, no… That’s not going to happen.”

One day, Murphy got into a kitchen cabinet that housed my baking supplies. I came home to learn he had eaten a whole canister of flour, a bag of sugar and a large can of lemonade powder. It was the equivalent of ten lemon bundt cakes. His stomach was distended and rumbling. I threw him outside and called the Rescue Society.

“This dog is too much! He needs constant supervision. You need to come and get him.”

I could hear the rescue worker clucking on the phone. “Lynda, I feel like we are friends. Let me tell you a story:

“One day my dog got in my purse where I had my false teeth wrapped in a napkin. I noticed right away that my teeth were missing and the dog was outside. I didn’t know who to call first ~ my dentist or the vet.

“I called the dentist to see if I could still use my teeth if I found them outside, buried under a pile of leaves. The dentist said, ‘Sure. Just soak them in peroxide. They’ll be fine.’

“Then I called the vet and asked him what I should do if the dog had swallowed  my teeth. The vet said, ‘Here’s how to find out if the dog ate your dentures. Get behind him and yank up his tail. If that dog’s grinning at you, he’s got your teeth.’” 

We kept the dog. Garth left for the Peace Corps right after college. Murphy died of cancer while he was away. I missed Murphy after he was gone but I never got another dog again. 

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Here Comes The Bride!

Twenty years ago today, my son, Jason, married his sweetheart, Kortnee Conway, in a chapel on the campus of Loretto Heights College. It was a lovely Colorado Fall day, much like today.

All brides are beautiful, but none more so than Kortnee. Jason was handsome, of course. Their girls, Devon and Tyler, were lovely ~ Devon, as a bridesmaid in a stunning, dark maroon dress, and Tyler, a junior bridesmaid, dressed all in white with a string of pearls around her neck.

Jason’s brother, Garth. was his best man. The bridal party, friends of the bride and groom, were young and carefree, eager to celebrate and wish Jason and Kortnee a long, happy life together.

People came from far away for the wedding. Both of Jason’s grandmothers were there. Kortnee’s family came in a caravan from Missouri. Jim’s family and my friends were there, too. We all stood outside the church before the ceremony, waiting to cheer Kortnee and the bridesmaids as they arrived in a white limousine. 

I would like to tell you that the wedding went off without a hitch. That wouldn’t actually be true. It was my fault. 

It was my responsibility to arrange for the music at the church. Jim hired Stacy, an extremely talented soloist from his church, to sing. She was awesome. 

I hired a pianist I didn’t know. He came highly recommended but he was fussy about what he would and wouldn’t play. Under no circumstances was he going to play “Here Comes The Bride.”

In the hustle and bustle before the wedding, I forgot to clear that with Kortnee. She had her heart set on “Here Comes The Bride.” I remembered there was a problem when the pianist started to play. No one knew the song he was playing but the bridesmaids came up the aisle and took their places anyway.

Meanwhile, Kortnee’s father was in the back of the chapel, waiting for Kortnee to appear. But there was no Kortnee. She was behind a door, waiting for her cue. She wasn’t coming out until she heard “Here Comes The Bride.” 

At the last minute, Stacy realized what the problem was. An experienced musician, she always carried a copy of “Here Come the Bride” in her briefcase, for moments like this. She grabbed the music, plopped it down in front of the pianist and hissed, “You’ve got to play this. Now!”

Mr. Pianist played beautifully, if somewhat reluctantly. Kortnee came into the hallway, met her father, and walked radiantly down the aisle. I took a deep breath and knew that everything was going to be ok.

After the wedding ceremony, Jason and Kortnee, Devon and Tyler, got back in the limo for a ride to the reception. The rest of us carpooled to a charming restaurant in the Denver foothills. There was music. There was an open bar. There was a full buffet. There were toasts and dancing and children chasing each other around the room. 

Outside there was a pond, with live fish and rocks painted with good wishes. It was a perfect beginning for a loving marriage surrounded by family and friends.

As I write this memory, my heart is filled with both joy and sadness for Jason and the girls. Jason and Kortnee had fifteen good years together. They had two children, Connor and Max, who grew up in a house filled with love. They went on day trips to the mountains and family vacations. They traveled to the East Coast to see both Devon and Tyler graduate from college. 

But Kortnee’s life was cut short five years ago when she had a sudden cardiac arrest.  She will always be remembered. She will always be missed.

Here Comes the Bride! A beautiful, happy bride! May she rest in peace.

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The Fourth of July

What fun! Spending the Fourth of July in Washington, D.C!

My grandson, Connor, and I traveled back and forth to Minnesota while he was in elementary school but now he was finishing fifth grade. We wanted to celebrate. Go some place different. Some special, knock-your-socks-off kind of place. 

What could be better than Washington, D.C. on Independence Day? Connor liked history and traveling. I loved fireworks and outdoor concerts. It was going to be a perfect vacation.

When we told people about our plans ~ go to Washington, stay in an Airbnb near the Mall, see the museums, the parade, the concert and the fireworks ~ they all said the same thing, “You are crazy! Do you know how hot it will be? How crowded? Do you know what you are in for?”

Our answers were: 

Crazy? Probably.

Know how hot it was going to be? How crowded? We had no idea.

Know what we were in for? Nope. No way!

Connor had just turned eleven and I was a lot younger than I am now. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat!

We flew to D.C. on Monday, July 1st, and took a cab to our Airbnb, a private room in a beautiful, modern condo within walking distance of the National Mall. Our hostess was a lovely young woman from Vietnam. She gave us our keys, announced that she was leaving to visit friends in New York, told us to make ourselves at home, and walked out the door.

Here’s what we learned in six days in D.C.:

  • Washington is a beautiful city with flower gardens and large trees everywhere. 
  • The museums are outstanding. Almost all of them are free.
  • The monuments are incredible. We saw monuments to the Korean and Vietnam wars and monuments in honor of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Dr. Martin Luther King. 
  • The National Zoo is phenomenal. We took the subway to get there and back, another new experience for both of us. The line to see the pandas was too long and the weather was sweltering, so we mostly saw elephants and lots of fish. 
  • The Smithsonian Folklike Festival is a wonderful, two-week celebration spread out along one end of the Mall. The 2013 themes were Hungarian Heritage, Endangered Languages, and African American Style and Identity. We spent most of our time exploring African American Identity, including eating fried chicken and waffles for breakfast. 

On Thursday, July Fourth, we got up early to find a good place to watch the parade. Floats and marching bands were lining up along the street. We saw the Budweiser Clydesdales and men on giant, old-fashioned bicycles cruising up and down the street. People were putting last minute touches on floats that celebrated cultural and ethnic diversity. Tourists from all over the world, wearing red, white and blue, were waving flags and snapping pictures.

We found a seat on a wall along the parade route and made friends with those around us. The parade lasted for hours, every float more beautiful than the one before. At one point, Connor found a cool spot under a tree and took a nap. 

A bicycle-rickshaw driver took us home, where we stayed until it was time to walk back for the concert on the lawn of the Capitol. We found a place far in the back, put down our blanket and watched the concert on large screens surrounding us. The concert finished to the roar of cannons and the 1812 Overture. We were in a perfect spot to watch dazzling fireworks right in front of us.

That was the last time Connor and I traveled together. I smile every time I remember it.

“We did it, Baby!” I said to Connor as we sat in a crowded airplane, on our way back to Denver.

“That’s right, Grandma.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We just did something no one else has ever done.”

“Indeed!” I thought to myself.

We did something that I will hold in my heart forever. Something that no one else has ever done!

 

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Olga Dubinko

I became an Airbnb host in 2012. Since then more than fifty people have stayed in my home. They all made an impression on me ~ some good and some, well, not so good.

No one changed my life, however, as much as Olga Dubinko.

Olga emailed me in the summer of 2016. She was a young mother from Belarus, looking for a place to stay for three months. “Oh, and by the way,” she added, “I will be seven months pregnant when I arrive.”

I said yes. It had been a long time since there was a baby in my house. I had never heard of Belarus. I had a lot to learn.

Olga arrived at the Denver airport looking very pregnant, exhausted, stylish and beautiful. With the help of a passerby, we loaded her heavy suitcase into the back of my car and took off for home.

Because Olga had a green card, she was able to live and work in the U.S. She also had a husband, Pavel, and a son, Eduard, who stayed in Belarus. Eduard, then age 8, has severe cerebral palsy as the result of overwhelming malpractice by the medical staff at the hospital where he was born. 

When Olga learned she was pregnant, she was determined not to give birth again in Belarus. Olga and Pavel made the heart-breaking decision that she would come to Denver to have their daughter, while Pavel stayed behind and took care of Eduard.

Getting to know Olga was a joy from the very beginning. She is brave and resourceful, kind, generous and smart.  Her father, Vyachaslau Dubinko, was internationally recognized in the Russian art of paper-cutting. There is no way I can describe  his beautiful work, shaping intricate figures using only black paper and a long scissors. He is featured in this video that makes me smile every time I watch it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fVB3gU4ipY

Olga unpacked her suitcase and immediately applied for a social security number and health insurance. She found a physician to monitor her pregnancy and a job working as an interpreter in a local law firm. She bought a car (a 1993 Saturn that still runs) and a car seat for her baby. And then we waited.

I told Olga I would drive her to the hospital and stay with her while her baby was born. If she was scared, she tried not to show it. I tried to hide my nervousness, too. 

I worried that Olga would go into labor in the middle of rush hour. There might be a snowstorm. The baby could be born in my car. As a world-class worrier, I conjured up all sorts of disasters in my mind, none of which came true.

Olga went into labor in the middle of the night on November 26th. The ride to the hospital was calm and peaceful. We were in no hurry. We talked and laughed as we drove past the zoo and big Denver homes lit up for Christmas.

Vera was born less than 24 hours later, weighing 8 1/2 pound, with a full head of hair and shiny blue eyes. I recorded the birth on my iPad. Olga bit her lip and never made a sound.

Olga and I have become great friends since that lovely November night, almost four years ago. Olga and Vera went back to Belarus to get Pavel and Eduard. Now they live in a small home near me. Their family has become my family. Eduard is a happy boy, in school for the first time in his life and making progress every day. Vera is a smart, beautiful little girl with blond hair and a mind of her own.

Pavel works as a master mechanic in a large auto dealership in Lakewood, CO. Olga works as a free-lance Russian interpreter. 

Olga maintains a blog: https://againstandforward.blogspot.com that is a delight to read. In it she combines her interest in fashion with an honest, poetic commentary on her life. 

Olga’s English is flawless. Her posts are beautiful to look at and inspiring to read. This week she describes finding a dress in a thrift store that is too big and needs mending. She writes:

This got me thinking: isn’t our life just the same? Falling apart so many times and being mended back. It is never possible to get those seams to be invisible, but they dо keep it together. Those seams leave scars forever, on our hearts, our souls, but we still keep going. Cause life is definitely worth mending it, fighting for it and going on.

Olga’s lesson in courage is a lesson for us all!

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Class of 2020

My oldest grandson, Connor, finished high school this year in the class of 2020. Today would have been his graduation ceremony. But like the rest of the kids who were born in 2002, there is no graduation ceremony for Connor. No cap and gown. No invitations and announcements. No party to mark this important day.

I remember Connor’s kindergarten graduation. The teacher shouted,  “You will always be a special class because you are the class of 2020!” The crowd roared. We knew this class was special.

I imagine kindergarten teachers all over the U.S. were saying the same thing. We never imagined that, for many of those students, it would be the last time they would wear a graduation cap. 

Connor’s life hasn’t been easy. Kids teased and bullied him in elementary school because he was quiet and smart. It was painful but Connor made the best of it. He went to a charter school for middle school, staffed with enthusiastic but inexperienced teachers. He made the best of that, too.

If there is a theme to Connor’s life so far, it is just that: He’s always handled disappointments and difficult situations with unusual maturity and grace. He’s made the best of it.

Connor’s Mom died when he was in seventh grade but he continued to carry on. He did his best in school and kept his pain quietly to himself. He switched schools for high school and made great friends for the first time in his life. 

Like other high school seniors throughout the country, Connor spent his last nine weeks learning online, texting friends, and wishing he were back in school. Today, instead of shaking the principal’s hand and receiving his diploma, he and his friends met in Tommy’s garage, six feet apart, wearing masks, glad to see each other after nine weeks of being at home.

The guys spent Prom night together, too. The got dressed up in their best clothes ~ at least from the waist up ~ and played video games together on Zoom. Connor wore a a black hoodie and a snazzy bow tie. Some of his friends wore suit coats, Some didn’t. Although they all wished their Prom wasn’t cancelled, they made the best of it.

As my first grandson, Connor stole my heart even before he was born. I could hardly contain my joy. I was giddy at the thought of meeting him for the first time. My wish for him then was that he would have an easy life ~ filled with only the best teachers and lots of friends who appreciated him for the thoughtful, sensitive, smart, caring boy I knew he would be.

I was wrong to wish that. Instead, I should have wished for experiences that challenged him. Experiences that would make him stronger. Experiences that would teach him to “make the best of It.” That lesson will serve him well for the rest of his life.

The class of 2020 have grown up in situations we never imagined when we first met them. When they filled our hearts with wonder and joy.

They’ve gone to schools with active shooter drills, in a world filled with metal detectors and bomb sniffing dogs. When they were in fifth grade they learned that first graders in a place called Sandy Hook were gunned down right before Christmas.

Connor, especially, understands how lives can be lost in an instant, leaving families forever changed in unspeakable way. His pain, now at age eighteen, is both private and universal.

I read a few graduation speeches as I got ready to write today. My favorite is from Awkwafina. She understands what the Class of 2020 needs to hear as they get ready for the next chapter in their lives::

“I made mistakes. Just keep on truckin’, keep on goin’, movin’ to the moon. Do not microwave metal. Not even a tiny spoon.”

Good luck, Graduates! We are proud of you!