Category: My Family and Friends

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.

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. 

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!

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!

I met my granddaughter, Devon, when she was ten and her little sister, Tyler, was five. Such darling girls! So sweet and precocious!

Jason was dating their mother, Kortnee. It was obvious that he was in love with Kortnee and her girls. They came as a package. I was delighted to have all three of them join our family.

I quickly noticed how smart Devon was. As a school social worker, I was around bright kids every day. But there was something extraordinary about Devon. 

She and I were talking one afternoon, soon after I met her. I said, “Devon, I can tell you are really smart. Do you know what you want to do after high school?”

“Yes, I’m going to Harvard. I’m going to be a lawyer.” She was in fifth grade! She didn’t come from a wealthy family. She didn’t have all the advantages that a lot of her classmates had. But she had a vision and determination that most kids don’t.

And then I said one of the dumbest things that ever came out of my mouth.

“That’s nice,” I said. “And what is your Plan B?”

Who says something like that?  A good grandmother would say, “What a wonderful goal, Sweetheart. I know you can do it!”

But I was a grandmother who had never, even once in my life, heard someone in my family say, “I’m going to Harvard.” 

Devon looked up at me, with her beautiful black eyes and blinked once.

“Oh, Grandma. There isn’t any Plan B.”

And there wasn’t. Devon had her eye on the prize when she was ten years old. Throughout school, she studied hard and took impossibly difficult classes. She declared her intentions and made them come true. 

Two years after I met her, when she was twelve, Devon met the principal of her future high school. She was at a party with his two daughters. When he came to pick up his girls, Devon met him in the hallway, shook his  hand and said, “Hi. I’m Devon. I’m going to be valedictorian when I come to your school.”

Can you imagine? Mr. Principal wrapped his arms around her and watched her in high school until she was, indeed, the valedictorian of her graduating class. 

But perhaps, my most memorable moments with Devon came when I chaperoned a trip to New York for Devon and thirty of her eighth-grade classmates. To be blunt, it was a nightmare. One of the worst experiences of my life. The students were spoiled and non-compliant. They spent most of their time on the telephone, calling friends and family in Denver. They were far more interested in shopping for clothes than in seeing the Statue of Liberty. 

But not Devon. She was a joy. She was excited to be in a city she had only read about. She wanted to see the Empire State Building. She asked great questions when we visited the United Nations. She stayed away from the telephone and did everything that was asked of her. I was proud to be her grandmother.

I will always be proud of Devon, my oldest grandchild. She graduated from Harvard and went on to study law at Columbia University in New York. In addition to securing great internships during the summer, working for a well-known, very prestigious law firm, Devon was chosen to be on the Wine Board. Devon knows more than me on every topic you can imagine, including wine.

After graduation, Devon moved to Los Angeles to work for the prestigious law firm. She was, as always, tremendously successful. But, after six years, she wasn’t happy. She left a high-paying job to become a federal public defender in Los Angeles. The work is hard. The clients are difficult. The successes are fewer. In true Devon fashion, she puts everything she has into every case. Her clients are lucky to have her in their lives. So am I.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

This week, April 8th, was the birthday of my mother-in-law, Dorothy Hein. She was born in 1910 and died in 2008. Through determination and sheer grit, she lived 98 years. She wanted to live longer. She wanted to outlive her classmate and dear friend, Marian Kelly. That would have made Dorothy the oldest living member of her eighth grade class. Alas, Marian lived to be 103. Dorothy is still not pleased.

Dorothy was hard-working, steady, kind, brave, joyful and, above all, funny. She was proud of being 100% Irish. Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, had a booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern reserved just for them every St. Patrick’s Day. They got there early in the morning and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

Dorothy and Margaret, the Gorman sisters, were a twosome. They loved to tell stories and laugh, to put on parties for every possible occasion. Dorothy’s happy place was her home ~ filled with the people she loved.  

Thanksgiving was Dorothy’s favorite holiday. Her table, set with her best china and wine glasses, stretched across two rooms. It included her family of six children, Margaret’s family of three more, their spouses and children, and often one or two drop-ins from the neighborhood. 

Dorothy’s next favorite holiday was her birthday. It was spring. The flowers in her beautiful backyard garden were blooming again. It was close to Easter. She made it through another year. There were lots of things to celebrate. Mostly, we came to celebrate her.

During this pandemic, I think of Dorothy. Tough times only made her stronger. Her father died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Overnight her mother became a widow with two small girls to raise and no income. Dorothy, herself, was quarantined in Denver General Hospital with diphtheria when she was ten years old.  The terror of not being able to swallow and having to stay alone in the hospital for weeks never left her. And yet, somehow, she coped and she survived.

When she died, Dorothy had already lost her husband and dance partner, Bill, her sister and best friend, Margaret, and two sons, Mike and Tom. And yet, again she survived. She coped by remembering them with an empty seat at the Thanksgiving table, set with her best china and a glass of wine.

By the time she was in her late-nineties, most of her friends had already died. But Dorothy was determined to stay in her own home and live out her life on her own terms. She filled her house with imaginary friends ~ a tiny sheik who sat on top of her counter and talked to her and a houseful of children who ran up and down the stairs, making a lot of noise. Now her happy place was filled with memories of the people she loved. I am very grateful to have been a part of that.

This poem by Kathleen O’Mara, is making its way around the internet.  It reminds me of the life of sweet Dorothy Gorman Hein, who lived through many, very difficult times and always emerged stronger, more determined, and with her sense of humor still intact. May we all follow her example.

And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently.

And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.

And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.

~ Kathleen O’Mara