by jphilo | Mar 3, 2014 | Family
Thank you.
Two words I wanted to say to C. J. Gauger face-to-face at his 100th birthday Saturday. But a snowstorm and frigid temperatures thwarted my plans. So today’s post is devoted to thanking a man who touched my parents and their young family in profound and positive ways.
Thank you…
for taking an interest in Harlan Stratton, my dad, in the mid-1950s when he was hired as Youth Extension Director in Plymouth County and later as Mills County Extension Director. Thank you for mentoring him and taking an interest in his wife and kids.
Thank you…
for observing a stumble in Dad’s gait as he walked away from you after at a 4-H function and telling a co-worker, “Something’s wrong with Harlan. We need to be ready to stand beside him and support his family.”
Thank you…
for acting upon those words after Dad was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1959–for calculating exactly how many days, minus vacation and sick days, he needed to work to reach the five year mark and qualify for a Civil Service pension.
Thank you…
for arranging for Dad’s Extension Office co-workers to pick him up for work once he couldn’t drive, to complete his paperwork once he couldn’t write, to read to him when his vision blurred, until Dad reached the five year mark.
Thank you…
for a pension that allowed my parents to buy a house built for a wheelchair, something they couldn’t afford to do on Mom’s teaching salary and in the absence of Social Security, which Dad didn’t receive until 1990 when he was 62.
Thank you…
for a pension, from which Mom gave Dad $40 as spending money every month. Not much, even in the 1960s and 70s, but enough to allow him to purchase birthday and Christmas presents for his wife, take his family out to supper now and then, and maintain his dignity.
Thank you…
for collecting money to purchase a small life insurance policy for Dad to provide something for Mom and her three small children…just in case. When Dad died in 1997, Mom and us kids were surprised to learn about the policy. Since we didn’t need it, we used it to start the Harlan Stratton 4-H Scholarship given annually at Iowa State University.
Thank you…
for the small pension Mom still receives as Dad’s beneficiary. It’s only $211 a month, and she doesn’t really need it. So she donates part of it to the scholarship fund and spends the rest on college text books for her grandchildren.
Thank you…
for calling some years ago, after reading a newspaper article that connected me to Dad. Thank you for confessing, over the phone, the extent of your kind involvement on behalf of our family when my siblings and I were very young, when Mom was vulnerable and in need of hope.
Thank you…
for showing how a small thread of kindness weaves goodness into the fabric of a family for decades and generations until its members are strong enough and grateful enough to weave kindness into the lives of others.
Thank you…
and happy birthday, C. J. Gauger, one of the great men I have ever known.
by jphilo | Feb 14, 2014 | Current Events, Family
When the radio announcer relayed the news of Shirley Temple Black’s death on Monday morning, I knew what the topic of conversation would be during my weekly visit with Mom.
Sure enough, Curly Top was on Mom’s mind on Tuesday. “Shirley Temple died,” she announced when I stepped through the door. “She was 85.”
“Same age as you,” I replied. “You kind of grew up together.”
Mom nodded. “My mother made Shirley Temple dresses for me and Ruth.”
The story is one Mom likes to tell, so I didn’t well bother to ask if the dresses were made out of feed sacks. I knew they were. “Did she fix your hair like hers, too?” I asked instead.
Ruth, about age 6, and Mom about age 4, a few years before Shirley Temple hit the silver screen.
Another nod. “Uh-huh. And sometimes, we went to Pipestone to see her movies.” Mom smiled at the thought of those long ago days.
Mom’s face brightened as she recounted old memories about the people who populated her early childhood–her parents, six brothers and sisters, and Shirley Temple.
All gone. They’re all gone, and my heart ached for her loneliness. But getting weepy wasn’t the way to honor Little Miss Broadway. “Where do you want to go for lunch?” I asked in my perkiest voice.
We finally settled on Chili’s, and halfway through the chips and salsa Mom said, “Shirley Temple died.”
“You kind of grew up together,” I said, and we were off and running again.
The Little Colonel’s passing came up several more times that afternoon, but Mom never displayed a hint of sadness. Only happy memories brought to life by the death of Bright Eyes: the dresses made from feed sacks, hours spent playing with her sister Ruth, eating meals with her parents and siblings at the crowded kitchen table, the excitement of going to the movies on a Saturday afternoon.
Not a mention of the imminence of death. Not a hint of fear. Just delight in the past, and I think, a readiness for one day in the future when she will follow The Littlest Rebel out of this world and into the next. A readiness to join her parents, her 6 siblings, their spouses and her husband in death.
Until that day comes, my brother will tease her. My sister will phone often. Her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews will send cards and pictures. Her baby sister, born when Mom and Susannah of the Mounties were 6, will call. And I will visit on Tuesdays, grateful for Mom’s delight in the long ago days when she is young, and Shirley Temple lives.
Photo Source
by jphilo | Dec 16, 2013 | Family
Sealed with salt water.
The words leaped off the page yesterday as I finished Mockingjay, the third book of the Hunger Games trilogy. The phrase was used by the story’s protagonist, Katniss Everdeen, to describe the process of recording her memories of loved ones she’d lost in the years recounted in the trilogy. The words Katinss wrote about her departed friends and family were, as she said, sealed in salt water.
As are my words and thoughts today.
Word came this weekend of the passing of my husband’s aunt, Harriet Walker. The news was expected, even anticipated, since she fell and broke her hip this past summer. She was ready to leave this world, to meet the Lord she served face to face, to be reunited with the great cloud of witnesses who went before her, and to join her beloved husband Harold, who died little more than a year ago.
Still, my words are sealed with salt water.
Because Aunt Harriet was my mentor and friend for more than ten years. We were not related by blood, but by a shared love of writing that bound us close together. When her book Your Alaskan Daughter came out, the members of my book club read and loved it. She ordered numerous copies of my first book, A Different Dream for My Child, and handed it out to families of children with special needs. When her health began to fail and sustained writing became difficult for her, she remained my steadfast cheerleader. Each summer at Family Camp, her eyes shone when we talked about writing. We laughed and talked and dreamed about the stories in our head begging to be written.
Finally, she asked if I would write a book with her.
So together we wrote Unraveling, the story of her mother-in-law, Mary Anne Tombaugh, who lived with Harold and Harriet for several years as Alzheimer’s unraveled her memories and thoughts. Harold and Harriet received and read the manuscript of the lovely, sweet story that emerged from our joint effort just a few months before Harold died. The email Harriet sent after she read it will ever be a source of great joy for me. Just as the passing of a woman who shared my love of words and story will ever be a source of sorrow.
A passing sealed with salt water.
Until, one day, we meet again in heaven. Where we will put our heads together and write stories and stories and stories in praise of the God who wove our lives together through our mutual love of words and of the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ.
by jphilo | Dec 2, 2013 | Family
Welcome to the latest Camp Dorothy session, which began on Thanksgiving and ends tomorrow afternoon. This report gives an overview of nine items essential for a stellar Camp Dorothy experience. Please refer to the above to see a picture of each item.
- A comfy couch where no one but the camp namesake can sit.
- Comfy pillows to make the couch conform to the stature of the camp namesake who would be more comfortable sitting in a different, smaller comfy chair, but refuses because she already claimed the couch and change is hard.
- A box of tissues at the ready.
- A crossword puzzle book at hand with more waiting patiently in a suitcase in case they’re needed.
- The TV remote for tuning into weather reports, The Price Is Right, Jeopardy, Judge Judy, Wheel of Fortune, and Antiques Roadshow with a minimum of effort.
- A wastebasket so used tissues, pencil lead, and eraser crumbs can be disposed of without leaving the comfy couch.
- An snuggly afghan, needed partly because the hot flash-prone camp director keeps the house too darn cold for the camp’s namesake and partly because the afghan was crocheted by the camp namesake’s mother and brings back sweet memories.
- The ottoman normally used by the camp director, who graciously sacrificed her comfort for the happiness of her sainted mum.
- The Harding County History book, which offers hours of entertaining reading about hardy immigrant pioneers who homesteaded in the remote regions of northwest South Dakota from the 1880s through the Great Depression. The photographs of grim-faced Scandinavians standing in front of tiny sod hovels also makes the camp’s namesake grateful for her present camp conditions.
For more information about how to obtain these nine essential items for yourself or your loved ones, inquire in the comment box below.
by jphilo | Nov 29, 2013 | Family
by jphilo | Nov 22, 2013 | Family
Dorothea Stratton (center) with her niece Bonnie and nephew Richard.
Pretty cool, huh? My mom, Dorothea Lorraine Hess Stratton is officially an author. A creative writing class inoculated her with the writing bug in the 1990s, and she began writing stories about growing up during the Great Depression on a farm near Pipestone, Minnesota.
Her folder of stories came to light when she gave up housekeeping about five years ago. My big sister decided to illustrate and hand bind one story per year to give to Mom at Christmas. Last year, Sis found Bookemon, an online service that allowed her to upload the illustrations and type in the text. The books can be ordered on the site, and the company prints, binds, and ships them.
Once our extended family members got wind of the titles below, they snapped them up.
Jenny, My First: The story of Mom’s love affair with Jenny, her pet pig.
Of Mice and Me: How the discovery of baby mice made a little girl’s mother dance.
The Little Irishman: Memories of Joseph Newell, Mom’s Irish grandfather.
Last but not least the self-explanatory My Big Brother Wayne and the Runaway Horses.
At the visitation for Aunt Lois last week, several cousins mentioned they had purchased copies to give to their children and grandchildren for Christmas. And then they hatched a plan to bring their books for Mom to sign after the funeral luncheon. Not a traditional location for book signings, but typical of children raised by survivors of the Great Depression who taught them how to make the most of what was available.
You can use the above the links to order copies of the books, too. A certain amount of the proceeds is donated to Iowa State University’s Scholarship fund that annually presents the Harlan Stratton Memorial Scholarship to an ISU student studying agriculture.
The author would love to sign the books, preferably not at another funeral luncheon however. For those of you who live nearby, Mom will be at our house from Thanksgiving Day until the following Tuesday. You bring the books, I’ll pour the coffee, and Mom’ll do the rest. How’s that for division of labor?
