Family Friendship

I'm getting to know my parents on a different level, one of friendship more than kinship, I suppose.  I've enjoyed an "adult" relationship with them since I got married and moved out at the very young age of 18. We lived near them, as a young married couple, and I spent a tremendous amount of time with them then, perhaps too much (if you ask Tim.)  I thought I was very adult at the time.  Basically, I was seeking a new recognition and approval from my parents of their grown-up, married child.

I attach significance to dates and anniversaries, for some unknown reason. For example, I remember when I turned 36 and rolled into the "I've been married longer than I was not" stage of my life.  We had been in the Navy for eleven years and lived in many places around the US as well as two years in the Philippines.  We had not, as a family, lived near my parents for a considerable amount of time.

And as it turned out, we never lived in close proximity to them again until they moved in with us last April.  Even though we had visited with them on a regular basis, sometimes three or four times a year, I regarded them in much the same way as I did as a child. I told them about my successes (they applauded.) I shared my heartache (they sympathized.) We laughed at old jokes, the familiar family lexicon, baby language that is undecipherable to the uninvited, uninitiated, the outsider. That intimacy of shared experience.

Do we ever "know" our parents?  Supposing one had a good childhood (as I did) and good folks (which I have) and, all things being equal, has a good relationship with one's parents. Do we build upon that foundation or just take it for granted?  Do we look at them fairly or are we prejudiced in favor of childish wants and needs?  How do we shift into a different mode of communication when all our lives we've been parent/child and not friend to friend?

One of the greatest challenges for me, since my mom and dad moved in, is learning how to be a caregiver without being condescending.  The roles have shifted somewhat, but please Lord, help me not assume that I am now 'parenting' my parents.  I want nothing more than to be  good, kind, concerned and at times, a firm giver of care to my folks.

And, may I make one thing clear?  Do not ever think I am being self-sacrificing or noble in having my folks live in our home.  There are all kinds of reasons for them to be with us right now, but one of the most important is that it is much easier to care for them when they are near. It would have been impossible to help them if they'd had to move into an assisted living facility in Alabama.  If you've ever had a loved one in a nursing home in your own town, you'll know what I'm speaking of.  There is always the guilt at not spending enough time with them or having to pick them up and take them to their doctor visits.  Whereas physically it is more demanding to have them live with us, emotionally it is far far better. And there are so many gifts I have received from them.

By far the greatest of these has been knowing them better.  Mom has had to fuss at me a few times to stop me from being so bossy.  She is teaching me how to give graciously and love well.  I am beginning to see so much of myself in her, which leads me to greater understanding of myself.  I am hearing her voice in a way I never did before.  I'm enjoying her company in a different way.  It's hard to communicate with Dad because of his hearing loss but it is so worth the effort.  I try to include him in all of my conversations, no matter the difficulty.  He surprises me sometimes at what he hears; it seems selective at times!  Because he needs to be as self-reliant as possible, I try to not smother him with too much care.  We try to get out and "mess-around" (running errands, WalMart, Post Office and such) every couple of days or so.  These are our bonding times.

Our youngest son, Ben, has been in transition over the last seven months and has lived with us for a few weeks, here and there, during that time.  I realize that I did not know him, really, not like I do now.  He had, after all, been gone from our home since he was nineteen years old.  And even though we lived in neighboring towns and visited back and forth pretty regularly, we were stuck in that parent/child mode of communication.  Seeking approval or solace, stuffing each other into boxes that they do not fit (or perhaps, never did), making presumptions and misjudgements.  It is utterly fantastic to spend time with him, this fascinating man that he has become.  I would never have know what I was missing if he hadn't moved back in for these brief spells.  What a loss that would have been.

The only way I can insert myself into my daughter, Cara's, insanely busy, complex life is by taking the train to Springfield and spending a few days with her and her family.  Living together, talking for hours, running errands with her, drinking gallons of coffee and playing Scrabble  endlessly on my iPhone.  I haven't been able to do that with her that since my parents have moved in and I grieve for the loss of that precious time with her.

Our middle child, Andrew, lives in Houston.  We haven't lived near to him since he was seventeen years old.  We dropped him off with relatives in Alabama to work the summer before college because we were moving across the country, to California.  We've always rolled out the red carpet for him when he came to see us, three or four times a year.  Like the prodigal son returning, we'd kill the proverbial fatted calf, trying  to stuff into those few few days the kinds of life experiences that build up the commonality, the lexicon of family intimacy. In recent years, we have spent many lovely times together, loving each other and counting our blessings, but we have not had the leisure of living together. I doubt I truly know who he is and I'm sure he doesn't know us anymore.  We've all changed, grown and hopefully, become more fully who God has intended us to be, but we are familial-strangers.

I guess my purpose for writing this is to say that I am a very blessed person.  I am eternally grateful for the precious opportunity to know and love and serve my family in this way.  Don't congratulate me or pat me on the back because then I will think I've done something special rather than being the recipient of treasures beyond compare.  If ever I begin to act or sound otherwise than joyful or grateful, remind me of what I've just told you about family friendship.

Measure of Success

I often wonder what film stars experience when they encounter images of themselves in the movies they have made.  I feel a sort of pity when I see them as they appear today compared to their younger selves, frozen in perpetual beauty or virility.  Some become recluses, refusing to be seen in their decrepitude. Others spend fortunes on plastic surgery, refusing to accept the inevitable.  Their lives are lived in reverse.

You don't have to be a famous beauty to get depressed when you look at old photos of yourself. Anyone can feel a sense of loss for their own youth, well spent or otherwise. I feel a definite sort of pity for my younger sister, nine years my junior.  She has this continual reminder before her (me) of how she will be looking in about a decade!  Poor dear!!!  Those of us with Scotch-Irish complexions that have spent years in the sun do NOT age gracefully!!!

Painters have reminders of their past everywhere in their works hanging on the wall. Are the paintings which I did in my younger years better than what I am doing now?  Certainly if I use the ruler of financial success, I see myself as failing.  I used to sell a lot more than I do now.  If I rate my growth through the mastery of draftsmanship or technical skills, it might be a draw.  But, if I measure my success as an artist by the ability to paint from life, instead of photography, I think I'm miles ahead.  If I count the ability to paint a la prima, directly, without elaborate under painting, I am pleased with that. If I take into consideration my increasing ability to capture life-like skin tones, that is also progress.

I am not certain if I am a better painter but I am pleased with little steps of success.  Being a self-taught artist,  I haven't gone through the exercises that most artists have been schooled in.  So when I diverge from painting people to paint a landscape or a still life, I am thrilled!  Because I learned to paint people first and apples later, that is progress to me.

Now I'm doing "genre" paintings.  My brother has been bugging me for years to combine his expertise in western horsemanship, tack and lifestyle with my love of horses into creating some authentic Western Art. I have painted my first ever cow portrait!  Actually, it's a young bull (see earlier blog.)  I am just thrilled with the way it turned out.  The piece I am working on right now is three riders in an Arizona landscape.  I've done a careful under-painting so that I could get all the legs in perspective, looking believable.  As I model the forms in paint, my knowledge of horses come slowly rising out of the deep recesses of my brain, like a remembered language, long unused.  

Artists have it all out there, exposed and laid bare for people to see, much like movie stars.  How will you judge me?  Do you see me pushing against formula?  Am I gaining or just treading in place?  Can you see my struggles with personal expression and artistic integrity? Is my work relevant or passe'?

I consider this lovely little study (above) a success... Alie posed in costume as the Girl with a Pearl Earring.  I started it in the live session Tuesday night and finished it from a photo in a few hours Wednesday. It's not my "best" but it really works for me.  Hope I'm living my life forward, not in reverse!

Redistribution of Wealth

My friend would get terribly excited when the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes information would come in the mail.  She'd lick every sticker and fill out each blank on every page of advertising that was sent and mail it back speedily.  She would then pray to the Lord, asking if he would let her win, she would give this much to one charity and that much to another. I don't fault her for her sentiments, because I've bargained with God before on many occasions.  But what I would ask her, cheekily, at that time was, "How much are you giving to these concerns now?" I was, of course, being a little smug, but my point was that we should be sharing the wealth that we have now rather than waiting for God to make us richer.  


What makes us think that we will feel more charitable when we have more money?  If we aren't faithful with the little we have, how can we be faithful with more (or be trusted with more, as the Bible so aptly reminds us?) We are just fooling ourselves.


We also deceive ourselves when we think that we only want to make the world a more equitable place by taxing the rich and giving it to the poor. What we are saying, despite all of our pious cries for social justice, is this: "you have more than me and that's not fair." The truth is, "taking" (i.e., taxing) something from someone simply because they have more is not fair, whether practiced by highway robbers or the federal government.  If the problem were only the need for social equity!  Some are calling for retributive justice, seeking to punish the crimes of the past by taxing the present. 


My concern is with a government take-over of the justice business.  Laws do a terrible job of policing behavior. Take highway travel speeds, for instance. We know that excessive speed is dangerous. The government regulates the safety of highway travel by enacting speed limits.  Do these laws deter people from speeding? Hmmmm, perhaps somewhat. However, one usually reacts only to the police car on the side of the road or in the rear view mirror.  What we really need is internal conviction that driving too fast is selfish and dangerous and potentially deadly to oneself and others. In the case of social justice, we need the conviction that caring for the poor (feeding, clothing, teaching, and elevating from poverty) is the business of mankind. What we need is a response to the goodness and generosity we've been shown by sharing it with others.  "What do you have that you did not receive?" 


All who read this are incredibly wealthy.  You are, after all, reading this on a computer.  What have you or I to share and how much better are we able to do this than the federal government?  If we are not faithful with the "little" we have, how can we expect ourselves to be faithful with more?

Tree House

It looked very different when we moved in. Six little arborvitaes had been planted near the foundation, dwarfed by the jutting bulkhead of our facade. We had a century maple, ailing, on the north side of the house and a couple of old maples in the back. In the bigger one we tied ropes to the lateral branches to make swings for the grandsons who used them for years. I loved to come home from work and swing with my head thrown back like a little child, gazing up at the winter evening stars. Even then, the maples were so diseased and hollow that the tree trimmer said he would never climb them again.

So we planted cotton wood, weeping willow, pin oak, redbud, and I don't know what else. We just stuck things in the ground and hoped some would survive. All of them have.

In the front we planted clump birches, pin oaks, a Bradford pear, red maple, ash and redbud. Any of these trees would have been big enough to fill the yard but instead they have all grown and filled in. I've tried to "layer" them, limbing up so that there are mid and upper story branches.

It looks like an animal sanctuary or the beginning of the movie "Shrek": birds and rabbits and squirrels "tweet, tweet, twittering" around the yard. The tips of the branches overlap, forming roadways for the squirrels to run from tree to tree. It's lush and leafy, almost too green. But I like living in my tree house, shaded from the blazing afternoon sun and shielded from passers by.

Years ago my mother-in-law, Emy, and I would sit outside in the late afternoons. From our perspective on the porch, we would place bets when the red maple would reach or exceed the apex of our neighbors' roof across the street. She'd laugh at the ash because it didn't look like a tree at all, more like a stalk of celery. I insisted that it would assume the appearance of a tree eventually.

These days, as I look up through the mature canopy, I think about which branches need to be removed because they're brushing up against the house or cutting out too much sunlight for even the shade loving plants in the under story. The big old maple out back is gone and I miss the boys swinging on it. I wish Emy were here to see how the ash has grown into a real tree and not just an odd celery-top looking thing and that the red maple is now as tall as the house.

What will the next owners think when they move in? I wonder if they'll think we were crazy to plant all of these trees and have them all taken down. They might not like living in a tree house, after all.