The Outlaws

November 27, 2023December 11, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ Leave a comment

When our granddaughter Abi was about three, she was obsessed with deciphering the family tree – with figuring out how the people were all connected to one another and to her.

“So my mom is your daughter?” Right. “And Tabi is my mom’s sister and your daughter and my aunt?” Right. “And Sean is Jackson’s dad and my mom’s brother, and your son, and my uncle?” Right. “And Marge is Sean’s wife, and Jackson’s mom, and your . . . ?” My daughter-in-law.” So my dad is my grandma’s son, and my mom’s husband, and Uncle Joey’s brother and your outlaw?” Right!!

And that’s how the people who married into the tribe became known as the outlaws.

Here’s the thing about marrying into this family. We’re a lot. I mean like A LOT! A lot of people, a lot of noise, a lot of chaos, a lot of opinions, and at times, a lot of drama (I know – hard to believe.) We differ in our political views, our dietary preferences, and our temperaments. But we all like pie so we do have that going for us.

This family would not be who we are without our outlaws. They have brought a measure of crazy and fun and grace to us all. It should also be noted that they have added some height to the gene pool which, all things considered, is an important contribution.

💙 First came Marge. One of Faith’s high school friends, she was in and out of our home on a regular basis. She was smart and funny and even-tempered. “Why can’t Sean date somebody like Marge?” Paul wondered. “She’s the keeper! ” Marge became part of the family, volunteering to do pick up and drop offs for kids needing rides to places, even coming to the weekly meeting at Taco Bell with her calendar when we were coordinating the week’s schedules. When five year old Fletch had kidney surgery, Marge was there with a huge gift basket filled with all of his favorite toys and snacks. She took Joy driving after she got her learner’s permit when no one else was available (or willing). Wherever there was a need, there was Marge – and that hasn’t changed.

Sean had joined the Marine Corps and was serving a seven month deployment on a ship floating in the middle of the Mediterranean Ocean. On a Thanksgiving afternoon, as we sat around the table, the phone rang; it was a very homesick Marine. “We need to do better about writing,” Paul told the family after the call. So we probably made a schedule. “I can write, too,” Marge offered. And so she faithfully sent letters and care packages. It would not be the last time our family would receive a note or package when it was most needed and least expected. It is a pattern that continues to this day.

When Marge’s date fell through for the Senior Prom, Faith said, “I’ll call my brother.” who by now had returned to Camp Lejuene in North Carolina. “He’ll take you.” And so he did – properly attired in his Dress Blues. With a sword!! Never underestimate the power of a costume!

When Fletcher got lost at the beach and a sheriff put him in the back of his squad car and drove him through the neighborhoods looking for the house where his family was staying because Fletch didn’t know the address (but really who has that information?), it is Marge who stood at the edge of the driveway jumping up and down in her light-up shoes to flag down the car. She’s good in an emergency.

Married now for over 26 years, she has proven that Paul was right. “She’s a keeper.” She has mothered three truly remarkable young men all while earning a Bachelor’s Degree and then a Masters. She has mentored and loved and served countless young Marine wives while holding down the fort even as her husband was gone on countless deployments. She has started over after two floods and a hurricane. And I’d tell you what her job is now, but I don’t even really understand it except that it takes a high powered security clearance.

Today Marge runs 5K races, goes tent camping all by herself, and can make almost anything out of yarn. She is an all round Superwoman.

But first and foremost, she is about family, about friends and about making the world a better place . . . starting with us. She always shows up for the people she loves.

💙 Three year old Cai was looking forward to coming to Nana and Colonel’s one evening. As he was collecting his cars, his stuffies, and all the other important things that travel with him, he said, “And I’m so ‘cited that Tabi and Jason will be there!!” Actually, his mother told him, Tabi and Jason won’t be there tonight. It’s just Nana and Colonel. He burst into tears. Not angry tears, but gut wrenching sobs. Buddy, what’s wrong? Finally he choked out, “But Jason is my gwown up”. And that’s the way all the nieces and nephews feel about Jason.

But he’s not just their grown up; he’s their friend. Jason brings the fun. You can tell by the decibel level in the room when Jason has entered the arena. “JASON, LET’S PLAY HIDE AND SEEK! JASON, LET’S WRESTLE. JASON, LETS PLAY TAG! JASON, COME HERE! JASON! JASON! JASON! And he always answers the call.

“Jason, will you invite me to your birthday, party?” Cai wants to know. Because everybody knows that the level of a friendship is measured by whether you get invited to the birthday party. And so Jason plans a birthday party and invites the littles. He hosts it at Adventure Park and gives everybody tokens to play the arcade games. And it seals the deal: each one believes that he or she is Jason’s best friend.

When the flood hits North Carolina and Chance and his brother and Mom and Dad and neighbor are all living in the RV, Jason contacts Sean and Marge. Because Chance goes to school online, would he want to come and stay with them until the house is rebuilt? So Chance packs up his possessions not destroyed by the flood and he and his guinea pig Peni spend the fall semester of his senior year at Tabi and Jason’s. Chance and Jason share a love of video games and sushi and staying up late into the night, and so they spend hours discussing game strategy, eating, playing, and forgetting about all that has been lost in the flood.

When one of the nieces in Virginia has her heart set on a particular toy or dress or whatever, Jason seems to have a sixth sense and will figure out a way to make it happen. When they visit, it is Jason they want to take them shopping for clothes because he “picks out the best stuff” and they know he will never steer them wrong. It is Jason who sends the money for a manicure for homecoming. And the list goes on.

But this didn’t start with the littles. When Tabi and Jason were dating, Jason befriended a thirteen year old Fletcher who would soon be in need of a friend and a sibling after his older sister Joy departs for college, leaving him alone without his pack. Jason stepped in to fill that gap and I will be forever grateful. It is because of Jason that we have a pond in our back yard, lights on our deck, some beautiful photos from our 50th wedding anniversary, someone to call when Paul needs help with a project, and someone to bring the party.

💙 And then there is Josh. Josh fits into this family because he gives as good as he gets. His quick wit, sarcastic humor, and his uncanny ability to latch on to a phrase and turn it into a thing . . . “Oh, Joy? Why didn’t YOU get a waffle cone?” or “Do you know what Pokémon means in Japanese?” or “This week on Nana and the Colonel”. When he first came to the family, nephews couldn’t remember his name. “Just call me Uncle Awesome.” He actually got one of them to do it for awhile. He can recite more movie lines than anyone I know, and there is no one I would rather hear tell a story than Josh. He makes every gathering funnier and more fun and put him together with Jason, they are an unstoppable party waiting to happen.

Josh always had time for the kids. Even when everyone else was worn down and tired out, he took time. Not that he wasn’t also worn down and tired out, but it was rare for him to say no. He made the holidays more fun, more chaotic, and more awesome (which I guess is how he got the name.)

Coming from a family of three boys, marrying into this family of so many girls had to come as a bit of a shock. But maybe God was just preparing him for having three daughters of his own. And I have NEVER known a better girl dad than Josh NIehaus. When his girls were little he spent hours playing with My Little Ponies and Calico Critters. He knew the names of all the Disney Princesses and could carry on elaborate conversations about the plot lines of each and every one of their stories as well as recite pages of dialogue from most of the movies. As they got older, he was the loudest and most enthusiastic cheer dad bar none. He practiced cheers with Maddie, coached her up and cheered her on. He plays video games with Abi and Tacy and gives them pointers on how to beat the game – but only after he is sure they can’t beat HIM.

When Fletcher and Emily left Kanas and moved back to Lynchburg so Fletch could go to seminary, Josh and Joy opened their home (already crowded with their own family) to them and baby Ezra. Because behind all the jokes and teasing, he is generous and giving and tender hearted. You chose well, Joy!

💙 When you are the oldest of three and you marry the baby of a family of six you have to know, life is about to get interesting. When you grew up with brothers and now have four sisters, well that can be a blessing or a curse. But I would say that Emily has adapted in a most spectacular way.

When Fletch called from college and mentioned that he and a girl he had met in his English class had become friends, we took note. When the family was at the beach over Christmas and he went off on his own every evening to “make a phone call” our curiosity was definitely piqued. But when we got our phone bill later in the month and it was through the roof because back then we did not have an unlimited calling plan, we KNEW something was afoot. He took her to Joy’s house to watch a movie as sort of a trial run – introduce her to the family in small doses was his thought, I suppose. What he had not counted on was Josh being Josh. Josh, who spent the entire evening trying to get one year old Abi to call her “Auntie Em”. And yet, before long they were a couple and she was thrown into the chaos of “the Abbotts”.

On our next visit to Lynchburg we went to dinner and met her for the first time. As we were leaving, I mentioned to Fletcher that we were planning a dinner cruise for our 40th anniversary and the family would be all be there so he should mark it on his calendar. Later, Emily said to him, “The dinner cruise on the boat sounds like fun.” Boat. What boat? “The one your family is doing for your parents’ anniversary.” On a boat??? (You will understand why we still rely on Emily to remember the details of things.) I told Fletch he could invite her to come. I doubted she would because, well, we are a lot. But she did come and we all thought – this one is the one.

Emily is a teacher. She majored in Elementary and Special Education, but it’s just in her blood (which is what makes her a great homeschooling mom). She will turn any situation into a teachable moment. Like the time she was visiting Joy and Josh after they had moved into their new house (the one where she had spent hours scraping off wallpaper and painting the wall. And when Josh and Joy were short of help on moving day, Emily’s parents showed up to help – because they are awesome like that). But on this crisp autumn day, they started the first fire of the season in the wood burning stove which had gone unused for who knows how long. Before long the chimney was on fire, the room filled with smoke and the smoke alarm began to shriek. Emily grabbed the toddlers and removed them from the room. “Abi, do you know what that sound means?” she asked three year old Abi, ready to offer up a lesson on fire drills and safety. “Dinner’s ready?” Abi suggested.

I appreciate that Emily always makes time in the schedule for birthday and holiday celebrations with us as well as just showing up in the ordinary times. Because what I know is that these days and these times will not last forever.

💙 And then there is Todd – one of the outlaws for a relatively short time but long enough to leave some stories that are still told even by those who never knew him. When there were fewer of us and very few littles to entertain us, often the evening’s activity when we were all together was a board game. Todd shared that, when they played games with his parents, sometimes his dad would take an extraordinarily long time to ponder his next move. Todd’s mother often said to him an exasperated tone, “Okay Phil! We could all win if we took as long as you do!!” To this day, when we are playing a game and a player is taking too long, one of the littles who was born long after Todd left the family will say, “Okaaay Phil . . .” and we all know what it means. The other story Todd contributed to the family lore was this: One year at the beach we were preparing breakfast when we realized we were missing an ingredient. We sent Todd off to the store. He stopped at the Wee Winks Market and as he was leaving, his car was hit by someone exiting the parking lot. The driver of the car happened to be a member of the Twiddy family who owned Twiddy Realty and managed the majority of the rental property on the Outer Banks. They exchanged information and when Todd returned home we chastised him for taking so long. “Well, if you must know, I was hit by a twiddy in the wee winks.” I can’t explain why but there is something about that line that sounds like it should be rated PG and even now I can’t type those words without laughing out loud.

💙 And Rachelle, whom we are still getting to know. She and Faith have been married for five years and I do know they are a perfect fit for one another. She is a grief/loss therapist which in and of itself tells you what kind of a person she is. What I also know about Rachelle is that she loves my daughter and their kids with a fierce and a loyal love and I always and forever will love anybody who loves my people.

The outlaws have brought their stories, their customs, and their traditions to us and embraced this family with arms open wide. We would not be who we are without them, and they make us better by being one of us. We are blessed.

Melanie – the first of the next generation of “outlaws”

Of course, there will be more outlaws to come in the next generation, more stories to tell and more family to love. Bring ’em on!

Minnie Alice

October 10, 2023December 12, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ Leave a comment

When I was little I thought my sister Minnie was a queen. She was beautiful and tall and regal and comported herself with the air of someone who should rule over a kingdom – not a farm or a feedlot. By the time I knew her, she wore her strawberry blonde hair in a french twist and dressed with the style and class of someone born to royalty. Nothing made me happier than when someone in the family would say, “You look like your sister Minnie.” But of course, I didn’t. I was short, had an unruly mass of dark auburn hair, and was lucky if my socks matched on any given day. But still . . . it was something to which I aspired.

This queen-like woman who dressed and carried herself with such class was a child of the Great Depression. Born in 1931, she was the fourth of the five children my parents were struggling to feed and clothe with no job and no money. When I was in grade school I mentioned to my mother that Minnie always had such beautiful clothes. “It wasn’t always the case,” she said. “When she was your age she had two dresses to her name. I would wash one out at night so she always had one clean to wear to school.”

I learned from watching my sister what it meant to care for people, how to make them feel special and noticed. She did this so well. Maybe it started for her in high school when her boyfriend, an athletic young man and star of the football team came down with a virus. Before it was over, the entire team would be diagnosed with Polio. . . a terrible disease which left many of them with life-long paralysis and disabilities. Minnie married that high school football star and with the aid of crutches, braces, and then a cane, Charles was able to lead a normal life. She was a big part of that “normal life” part. She remained steadfast and strong throughout, as well as later in his life when he lost mobility of his legs and feet due to post polio syndrome. She was his rock for 58 years.

What I remember about Charles from my childhood is that he was witty and smart and his sarcasm was often lost on me. He tended to scare me a little and to hurt my feelings. But Minnie was always attuned to the moment and knew when maybe he had pushed it too far and she cleverly and carefully diverted the conversation to something safer. She was like that.

Minnie was one of the most generous people I have ever known. With her time, with her money, and with her attention. I don’t think many months went by that she didn’t drive the eight hours from her farm in Nebraska to our house in Colorado to visit my mother, my sister Lola, and me. She took us out to eat, a rare treat in those days, took my mother to run errands, and took me to buy a new dress for the first day of school or whatever the need was. One Christmas she bought me a HUGE pink stuffed poodle for my bed (something I would never have asked for because of the expense I imagined it would incur). She asked my mother for her engagement ring setting which had been long been missing its ruby stone and for years had sat naked in Mom’s jewelry box because she could not bear to part with it. Minnie retuned it to her with a new ruby on the next Mother’s Day. She took me shopping for a rocking chair for my high school graduation because she knew I would always need a rocking chair. And the list goes on.

Sometimes her generosity combined with the age gap could create an awkward moment. Paul remembers the time we made a trip to Nebraska for a visit after we were married. We had accompanied Minnie to the grocery store. As we were waking through the aisles, Minnie reached in her purse and pulled out a quarter which she gave to Paul, “Do you want a soda out of the machine?” “How old does she think I am? Ten?” Maybe twelve, I told him.

But perhaps the best gift she gave me was her daughter Shirley – one year younger than I. Our worlds were vastly different, yet we were fast friends. Shirley lived on a farm and loved all things outdoorsy, animals, and non-domestic. When Minnie and Charles moved from a house in town to the farm, Shirley was delighted – the farm came with a 30 year old horse named Sugar. Minnie became a 4-H leader and immediately signed her daughter up for” Let’s Cook,” “Let’s Sew” and “Let’s Groom Your Room” in an attempt to get her off the horse and out of the corrals. Shirley told me once, “I can still picture the old kitchen curtains she gave me to make my quick-trick skirt. I immediately saved my allowance money and paid a fellow member to do my sewing so I could pursue my trick riding.”

When Shirley came to visit me, her mother took us shopping and to Baskin Robbins. Without fail. We rode our bikes to the little store and got Cokes and Dreamcicles and Archie and Veronica comic books and came home to lie on my bed with the big pink poodle and read our newly purchased comic books. And my mother made her peach cobbler because it was her favorite and we pretended we were sisters instead of aunt and niece.

Shirley had a brother thirteen months younger than her. When he was in first grade his teacher told him he couldn’t come back to school until he had learned to write his first and last name. So Minnie sat him down at the kitchen table one Saturday afternoon and told him he wasn’t leaving that table until he could write Phil Smith on the paper in front of him. After a long and trying session he had mastered the assignment. But as he got up to leave she heard him say under his breath, “I’m just glad my name isn’t Marjorie Spikelmier”. I’m sure my sister was just as glad. This was the same Phil Smith who climbed the water tower of their small town the week before his high school graduation and spray painted his name on it in huge black letters. When called to the principal’s office and asked to explain himself, his defense was, “Do you think I would be dumb enough to paint my OWN name up there?” Apparently the principal thought exactly that because Phil was expelled and not allowed to graduate with his class. Instead he could attend graduation at a school in another small town a few miles away. “Okay,” his mother told him, “but YOU will be the one to call your grandmother who put in for vacation for this date a year ago and tell her you will be graduating next weekend instead.” It would seem Minnie was as afraid of my mother as I was.

Eventually Charles and Minnie left Nebraska for Texas. where the weather was warmer and it was easier on Charles. They owned and operated a feed lot there until they retired, moved to an apartment building for seniors and purchased a camper which they used to to visit the coastal areas of Padre Island, Corpus Christi, Brownsville, and many other places in Texas and Florida. Minnie was nothing if not flexible.

That apartment is where I went to visit her before she died. Our sister Lila and I flew to Texas to see her when Shirley had called to say, “If you’re coming, you might want to come now:” No sooner had we stepped through the door than she led us into her bedroom. “Come in here, girls. There’s something I need to show you.” She pulled out the ruby ring which my mother had left to her when she died. “Sherry, you should have this.” She put my mother’s gold wedding band in my sister’s hand. “And Lila, you take this.”

It was during that visit as I listened to Minnie and Lila and Charles reminisce about growing up together and the pranks my brothers played on them and the stories they told about a time and a place and people who were not a part of my story, that I learned more about her than I had ever known in all the years before.

I loved my sister. But what I discovered as i grew to adulthood is that I didn’t really know her. I had not grown up with her as had my brothers and sisters – had not shared their stories of poverty, of hardship, of war and life on a Nebraska farm. And she was not quick to share any of that. What I came to realize is that Minnie was a very private person. She simply did not talk much about her life or herself. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she did not share that information with her daughter, her sisters, or as far as I know anyone but her husband. No one knew when she had a mastectomy or reconstructive surgery. It was not until her doctor told her, “You really have to tell your daughter and sisters; they need that information”, that she shared it with us. When the cancer later returned as bone and then brain cancer, I learned it from our older sister. I called Minnie. “I’m so sorry,” I told her. There was a long pause. “Sherry, I’m so scared.” It was the most vulnerable I had ever known her to be and it broke my heart.

When Shirley was in fifth grade, her P.E. teacher once had this woman – the one with the perfect posture, the perfect way of walking through the world, the perfect sense of elegance – to come to class to teach the girls to walk with style and grace. “Like Minnie.” She was as close as our family got to royalty.

Minnie & Charles, Irvin & Joyce, Lila & me

**“You look just like your sister.”**
**I could do worse.**

Thank you to my niece Shirley for sharing stories and details about her mother’s life which helped in the writing of this piece. It helped me to know my sister better and I hope to do justice to her story.

Where Were the Adults?

October 5, 2023February 17, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ Leave a comment

We came of age in the chaos of the 60s, lived through the incredibly bad fashion of the 70s, and spent our childhood smack dab in the middle of the 50s. The decade of poodle skirts, roller skates you wore over your shoes and tightened with a key, of drinking Kool-aide out of brightly colored aluminum cups on hot summer afternoons and playing kick-the-can with the neighbor kids till the street lights came on, telling us it was time to go home.

Paul’s childhood is filled with stories that could have come right out of Sandlot or The Christmas Story. The cast of characters may change from story to story depending on who their neighbors were at the time, how many of his siblings had entered the picture by then, or whether they lived in the small town of Boone, Colorado, or had moved into the big city of Pueblo. But the starring roles, at least in the early years, are always reserved for him and his brother David, three years his senior.

As a consumer and a recorder of the stories, rather than a participant in them, I am always struck with the same question. Where were the adults? At least in his telling of them and I think in his memory of them – they were simply non-players. Charles Schulz, commenting on the lack of adults in his Peanut’s comic strip once said, “Adults have been left out because they would intrude in a world where they could only be uncomfortable.” He believed they would ruin the magic of the strip and were simply not needed. “Adults bring everything back to reality. And it just spoils it.” And that about sums it up.

So here are some of their stories. Keep in mind it was a different time, a different life and a different world.

The One About Starting a Business

All it would take, they decided, was a good idea, a little hard work, and a business plan. And so they collected gourds, dug up small cactus from the prairie and planted them in the hollowed out gourds. They put the finished products in a wagon and pulled it around the tiny town of Boone, knocking on doors and selling them for a dime a piece. After putting in a hard day’s work, they counted up their spoils and divided up the money. What to do when you are six years old and you have money burning a hole in your pocket? Well, you strike out for the hardware store (which happened to be the only store in town) to spend your profits. “What did you buy?” I ask him. “A ball of twine and a roll of electrical tape.” Oh, the possibilities. . .

The One About the Bow and Arrow

It was Christmas of 1959. Excitement had reached a fever pitch as the four siblings dreamed about what they might find under the tree for them on Christmas morning. Maybe, he hoped, it would be a telescope – one that would let him see into the heavens and discover what lay beyond.

A few years earlier he had hoped and prayed for a shiny red bicycle that would carry him to new, unexplored places he could only dream of. But as Christmas drew nearer his parents had explained that Dad had been out of work, money was tight, and Christmas would be smaller than usual. “IF there is a bike, it would only be one. To share.” Still, he had dared to hope. Maybe there would be a bike and maybe David would actually share it. But on that Christmas morning, under the tree, there had been not one but TWO brand new red bicycles (put on layaway months before and paid off little by little through the month of December.) And in that moment he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was a God in heaven. It would not be until many years later, as a young father himself with a limited budget and four young children of his own, that he would come to understand and appreciate his parents for their sacrifice.

So this year, as the anticipation became almost unbearable, he knew that whatever was under the tree for him would surely be grand, and he went to bed with visions of the Sears’s and Roebuck Christmas Catalogue dancing in his head.

When thirteen year old David opened his Single Shot 22 Caliber Rifle the next morning, the younger brother could scarcely breathe. This surpassed all of his grandest expectations! What a score!! And what a grown up present. This proved that they weren’t just little kids anymore. Then it was his turn. “I should have known,” he has told me. “It didn’t have the right feel or weight to it.” But he refused to believe that whatever David got, he would not also get. However when the wrapping was undone, what he held in his hands was a toy bow and arrow. The kind with the suction cups on the arrows. It wasn’t a 22 Rifle, it wasn’t a real bow and arrow, it wasn’t a grown up present. It was a TOY. He could not hide his disappointment. “Did you try?” I’ve asked him. “I doubt it.” “But seriously, do you think it would have been a good idea to give a rifle to a nine year old kid?” It seems that wasn’t the point.

Later that afternoon he trudged up the stairs to his room to practice his archery skills – by then determined to make the most of a bad situation. And that’s when he shot the arrow (with the suction cup on its tip) and broke his bedroom window, missing the target on the tripod completely. With a TOY! Could Christmas get any worse? Every time he tells this story I remind him that the broken window is proof that his parents made the right choice.

The One About Shooting Your Eye Out

Perhaps in an effort to salvage his reputation, the next Christmas Santa left a Red Ryder BB gun under the tree. All was forgiven as the two brothers and neighbor boys set out for an afternoon of target shooting. The target was the metal numbers on a telephone pole and they paced off a respectable distance and drew a line in the dirt. “Stand here,” they told him. He missed the first shot and the second and the third. So they moved him closer to the target. He missed again. And again. They moved him closer to the target. Same result. They moved him a fourth time. This time he hit the target . . . right on the metal identification plate. The BB ricocheted off the plate and came back to hit the shooter right above his eyebrow. Blood streamed down his face, but he had hit the target! He still wears the scar proudly to this day.

And in the “You Can’t Make This Stuff Up” category.

By 1960 David was a teenager and had outgrown the shenanigans of younger boys. But not to worry. The family had moved to a house on the edge of the prairie where two boys lived down the street. The adventures were just beginning!

The One About Building a Raft

On a hot summer afternoon, the boys (ages, 9,10, and 11) began brainstorming about a way to cool off. “Hey, let’s build a raft and float down the river!” one of them said. And so that is what the wannabe Huck Finns set out to do. They scrounged some scrap lumber, some nails, a couple of hammers and for all I know some gray tape and Elmer’s glue. But in the end they settled for a single piece of ply wood, having run short of supplies and resources. And so Terry and Tommy and Paul drug the “raft” two miles from the building site to the river – a half a mile of that being along Interstate 25. . . walking along the right side of the highway . . . with the traffic. When they reached the river and found a place to launch the raft, they put it in the water and climbed on. It sunk. They tried again. And again. Finally they abandoned the raft, watched it float down the river without them and settled for skinny dipping in the Fountain River.

They were now faced with the two mile hike home. But as luck would have it, they were trudging along the side of the highway when they noticed something being tossed out the window of a big Cadillac as it sped by them. When they went to investigate, they could not believe their good luck. The treasure was a half smoked cigar, still lit. And so the boys sauntered along, taking turns puffing on their stogie, returning home a little green and only only a bit worse for wear.

The One About Riding the Rails:

Train tacks ran across the prairie and it was’t unusual to see men sitting in a boxcar with their legs dangling over the edge. They would ride from town to town this way as a means of getting from one place to another without buying a ticket. And so one fine summer day, the boys hopped a freight train, sat with their legs dangling over the edge of the box car and fancied themselves living the life of a hobo. And maybe they thought to themselves, “This is the life!” at least for their two-block train ride.

The One About Building a Bomb:

Before the days of the internet, learning something new was was more a “trial and error” kind of thing. It must have been sometime around the 4th of July because they had found some firecrackers. From someplace else they found some shot gun shells. (Again, one might ask, where were the adults??) All they needed now was some gasoline and “hey. . . we could make a bomb!!” So they took the supplies, headed out to the prairie with an empty coffee can and found a little cave dug into the sand where they could “safely” create the explosion. One of them had matches (of course) so they lit the gasoline and then ran for cover to watch it blow up. But for whatever reason – the gasoline had soaked the firecrackers and they never ignited, the shotgun shells were duds, or God in heaven took pity on three stupid boys – the gasoline burned itself out, there was no explosion, and they lived to go on to other adventures and grew to be old men with great stories.

So where were the adults? God only knows. Paul’s just glad that his parents aren’t around to read this. It could only make them uncomfortable .

No girls allowed (That would be their sister Beth under the box).

The Things We Share

October 1, 2023December 12, 2024 ~ Sarah ~ Leave a comment

by Sarah Abbott

Our family story would not be complete without this chapter. These two “littles” have brought to us what was missing. Thank you to their mother for expanding and enriching our world and also for sharing these words.

For all my life, there have been parts of my story I know, not because I remember them, but because those who came before me held the memories and passed them on to me. I know about the Kansas heat the summer I was born and the doctor singing the Sara Lee jingle when he learned my name. I know about the road trip to Colorado in my first weeks of life and the portable baby bed crafted out of a cardboard box.

It’s different with my children. When we first met in 2016, they already had lives and experiences which I cannot speak to. I do not hold their earliest memories, and these stories are not mine to share. The first time I met my son was in a conference room full of caseworkers where he anxiously paced the perimeter of the room, looking out the windows and listening to music on his toy. He was a bundle of movement, pacing the floors, drumming every surface and making music everywhere he went. I brought him home four days later.

He was so tiny that at seven years old, he could still easily fit in my lap or ride on my back while I completed chores and made dinner. The day I brought my son home, I spoke to my daughter for the first time. I called her to introduce myself and give her an update on her brother, and from our very first conversation I was struck by her incredible tenderness towards her siblings and her willingness to show me, a complete stranger, an abundance of grace. Our relationships happened individually and over time. I got to know my son over hours of pushing him on the swings at the park, taking walks, building forts, and carrying him in my arms and on my back. My daughter and I connected over weekend visits and family outings until she was no longer visiting, she was just home. Over a summer of jigsaw puzzles, camping trips, family dinners and evening tea we became a family of three.

Over the past seven years we have created our own shared family history, inside jokes, rituals and traditions. We often reminisce together: remember the Christmas we tried to go to the light show that had been sold out for weeks or the time we nearly burned down the porch with the ladybug firecracker? Remember when we went to the drive-in movie and Kiko took a bite out of the car’s steering wheel? There is the week we spent at the beach, seeing the ocean for the first time and the months of Covid spent baking and having movie marathons. There are years of collected memories now, many good, some hard, just like every family.

My kids are their own remarkable people filled with unique traits for which I can take no credit: My son’s silky, soft hair, long eyelashes and intricate drumming rhythms. My daughter’s beautiful skin, artistic talent and love of animals. None of this comes from me. Yet, over time, we have shared pieces of ourselves with each other. My daughter has inherited my mom’s pie baking skills. My son shares my dad’s love for nature and road trips.

My son is teaching me to appreciate hip hop music and be present in the here and now. My daughter is teaching me to be more emotionally honest and to approach life with curiosity. I know I don’t get to choose which traits of mine my kids will adopt. My hope is that my influence in their life doesn’t ever change who they are but encourages them to fully be themselves. My hope is that whatever else they take from me, first and foremost, they know they are loved unconditionally

Although I am not genetically related to my kids and the three of us are very unique individuals, we also share a lot of similarities. We share a love for soft blankets, cozy spaces and warm lighting. We share an appreciation for honest conversations and being together in silence. We share an understanding that there is value in our differences and communication is more than words. Over the years we have developed our own shorthand of whistles, clicks and quacks that communicate nothing specific but everything important. It means we listen to one another, both what is spoken and unspoken. It means we see one another both our uniqueness and similarities. It means we speak each other’s language. And when one of us calls, the others will answer.

I Wish . . .

March 7, 2023February 17, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 1 Comment

We both had red hair – a dark auburn really. Much like our mother’s, I think. She had brown eyes; I had blue. We grew up in the same family; sort of. She lived out her childhood in a family with both a mother and a father in the home, surrounded by four siblings only a few years older than she. From the age of four, after my father’s death, I grew up in a home with a single mom and her: a sister seventeen years older than me. She was born in the middle of the Great Depression and I was born at the beginning of what some called the Golden Age – the 1950’s. We shared a home, a family background, and genetics but though I know ABOUT her, I really didn’t know HER. And that’s on me.

Her name was Lola Irene. I have no idea why she was given that name – maybe because my mother liked the sound of it. I do know that it wasn’t until years later that my mother realized she had done the very thing she disparaged my grandmother for. My dad’s name was Ray. He had a brother named Roy. My mother told me, “I wondered why anybody would be so stupid as to give two boys in the same family such similar names. It led to no end of confusion – for everybody!” Then one day – when it was too late to do anything about it – she realized she had done the same thing with two of her daughters: Lila and Lola. I think after that she always cut my grandmother some slack.

When Lola was five days old she contracted whooping cough. She ran a high fever for days and though my parents prayed fervently, they did not expect their baby to survive. They would not have been the first family they knew to lose an infant to one of the many diseases that every parent of that generation feared. But at last the fever broke; their baby had survived. It would not be until later that they would understand the aftermath: the high fever plus the whooping cough had caused brain damage resulting in permanent physical, intellectual, and developmental disabilities.

As a child, my sister often experienced petit mal seizures, though neither the doctors nor my parents understood what these were. They grew used to her “spells” as they called them: periods of time where she stared into space unseeing and unaware of her surroundings. Nobody thought much of it; maybe she’s daydreaming, they said. It wasn’t until she was 20 that she had her first grand mal seizure and was diagnosed with epilepsy. Though medication (which could have terrible side-effects) kept them somewhat under control for periods of time, these seizures would worsen and continue for the rest of her life and became debilitating and dangerous.

Our older sister Lila had moved from Nebraska to Denver a year out of high school to attend nursing school. There she met her husband and they settled in a town south of Denver – Pueblo, Colorado. I think it was in the fall of 1953, Lila brought her children home to the farm for a visit. Lola was sick and getting sicker every day with fever and terrible muscle aches. Lila insisted they take her to a hospital about an hour away. It was there they diagnosed her with polio and she had her first grand mal seizure which led to the diagnosis of epilepsy. It was a scary time for all of them, but once again Lola pulled through and though the polio left her limbs weaker, she suffered no paralysis. Because we are all shaped by our stories, I think this is the reason that I am a believer in vaccines. My sister Minnie’s husband also contracted polio as a teenager and as a result wore a brace and walked with a cane the rest of his life. Neither the whooping cough nor the polio vaccine were available to them; I’m glad they were for my children.

My sister Lila was home for a visit. My brother was home from Korea and the family wanted a picture. The next day, Lola
( top row far left) would be taken to the hospital and diagnosed with Polio.

I don’t know when I learned all of these details. Somewhere along the way, I’m sure my mother shared them with me to help me understand why Lola needed extra care and why she couldn’t do all the things other grown ups could. Why she couldn’t live by herself or drive a car or get a job. Why things that seemed easy and effortless to me were harder for her. Back then we used the word handicapped. Today we would say disabled, a term I have only recently learned the disabled community prefers to special needs. It’s interesting to me that so often terms that start out as a straightforward definition become loaded and stigmatized until they are avoided altogether and replaced with something new until later reclaimed by the community.

In 1954, after my father’s death, my mother moved with Lola and me to Pueblo where she could find work to support us while being near Lila. After the first year or so we bought a two bedroom house near the hospital where Mom had procured a job as a cook. My mother and Lola shared one bedroom and I had the other to myself. It never once occurred to me why this was the arrangement, and I never thought to ask. But now I wonder – how did that feel to a 22 year old woman to be sharing a room with her mother? But I never remember her complaining – though I’m sure if the tables had been turned, I would have raised all kinds of hell.

This picture had to be taken shortly after we moved to Pueblo. We all have that dear-in-the-headlights look.

I remember there was a period of time when my sister had an unofficial job. She was a companion for a lady in a wheelchair and she would go to her house and fix her lunch and hang out with her so the woman, whose name was Esther, didn’t have to be alone all day. And sometimes from time to time I would go with her and we would put together puzzles and Esther let me use her typewriter and I felt so grown up. Did I ever tell my sister that? Did I ever tell her I appreciated that she let me do that? I don’t think I did.

Later she worked at the Goodwill. She seemed happy there. Maybe she felt like it was a real job and she was doing real work. She got a paycheck and money of her own and she made friends. I don’t know how long she worked there or why it ended. My guess is that the seizures made it difficult and my mother was anxious about it. I never asked her and we never talked about it.

The truth is, I don’t really remember talking to her much at all. As I got a little older I think I felt like we didn’t have much in common. I had my friends and my life and her life was so . . . different than mine. I couldn’t relate to her and I didn’t try and that’s on me.

I have very little memory of what anyone got me for a wedding present except this: Lola gave me a little Correlle teapot. She knew I liked tea. I have no idea how she knew that except she clearly paid more attention to me than I did to her. When I got married and moved out, I know that was a hard time for her – not because she missed ME really, but I think she felt like she wanted her own place and she wanted her own life, too, And she didn’t want to live with her mother forever. My mom knew her daughter could never live on her own and she would not put her in a “home” as she had seen others do with their “handicapped” children. But Lola persisted.

I don’t know it for a fact but I am guessing that it was Lila who persuaded my mother that Lola needed something different and that she deserved to live as independently as she possibly could. I’m sure there were also hard conversations where Lila made my mother come to grips with the fact that Mom would not always be around to take care of her daughter. . . and then what? So Lila started looking and they found a place in Colorado Springs – only 30 minutes away from Pueblo – where Lola could live in a little apartment but there were people there to look in and help when needed. And if the time ever came – which it did – that she needed more care, she could move into another wing where more supervision and care would be provided. It was the right call and even I knew she was happy in this place, surrounded by friends and activities she could be a part of. Lila and her family often visited, and she lived out her days in this way to the age of 60 – well loved and well cared for.

Out of all my siblings, Lola is the only one I ever shared a home with. I should have known her better than any of the others. But I didn’t. I simply didn’t take the time or make the effort to learn about her and her life. And I am the poorer for it. My mother used to say to me, “I don’t understand how she stays so happy and so positive with everything she’s had to deal with in her in life, but she does.” I wish I had asked her about her life and her stories and her memories. I wish I had made the effort to see the world through her lens. I wish I had included her more. I wish I had taken her for a ride in my new car when I came home with my driver’s license. I wish I had asked her to be part of my wedding. I wish after I moved out of state, I had sent her pictures of my babies and called her on her birthday. I wish I had been a better sister and a better human.

Because what I know now as a grandmother of some awesome kids with disabilities is that I am the poorer for not having shared more of life with my disabled sister. She had so much to teach me. And I had so much to learn.

My beautiful, auburn haired, brown eyed sister would be 90 years old today. Happy Birthday, Sister!

my mother, my siblings, and me – one of the few photos of all of us

After I moved to Maryland, my mother and Lila brought Lola to visit. She got to fly on an airplane and visit the capital – an adventure she throughly enjoyed!

It’s Complicated

November 19, 2021December 12, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ Leave a comment

It’s not a story, really. Yet perhaps it is the beginning of all the stories.

I had a conversation with my eight year old granddaughter a few days ago. She was having a hard time watching her twelve and fourteen year old sisters at a party with their friends and realizing, not for the first time, that she did not belong in their group.

“Nana,” she asked me with tears spilling out her eyes, “Were you the youngest in your family?”

“I was” I told her.

“Did you feel left out?”

“I did,” I said.

And then we went to Walmart and bought a blue dragon off her Christmas list and it didn’t fix anything, but sometimes you just do what you can do.

So I have been thinking about family dynamics and how we are shaped by these very complicated relationships.

I am the youngest of six (by a whole generation) and Paul is the second of eight. Needless to say we had very different childhoods. But then there is the family we made together, and they too had very different childhoods.

I know because they have told me that our six kids feel they grew up in different families. They feel that way because it’s true. The first four were all two years apart, were raised by very young and very poor parents and were shaped by who we were then and by their own experiences of those years. The younger ones came six years later, were raised in a more traditional church by older and sometimes more relaxed parents. Depending on your perspective, you missed out on the advantages the other group had. The older ones took note that the younger ones had rooms to themselves and opportunities that they missed out on. The younger ones missed out on the memories that the four shared that they would never be a part of. But what I know, and what we all know if we are honest, is that families, no matter how well intentioned, inflict wounds on us which are not always obvious to those on the outside or sometimes even to those on the inside.

Yet when we come together as adults, those are not typically the stories we tell. Rather we tell the ones that remind us that, for better or worse, we belong to one another and we try as best we can to find commonality and kinship perhaps in spite of, as much as because of, our childhoods.

I also know that sometimes families fracture. Sometimes those fractures heal and sometimes they don’t. And who is to say the how or the why? Perhaps only God knows.

I am grateful that as adults, my kids are figuring out how to care for and support one another across the age differences, woundings, physical miles and sometimes differing ideologies. And I am so very grateful that this Thanksgiving these guys will come together from three different states with various and sundry littles. To tell the stories, to make new memories and to continue to bridge the gap.

So hang in there, Tacy. You belong more than you think you do. And the story is not over yet.

With This Ring. . .

July 3, 2019February 20, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 6 Comments

When Paul proposed in January of 1969, he did it without an engagement ring. That is another story and one that is told in the story called The Proposal. But this is a different story.

The day after we graduated from high school, Paul got in a car and drove to Denver where his Dad had moved earlier in the year for a job. He got a job in the same bakery where his dad worked and eventually would land a second job at the Leaning Tower of Pizza (yup, that was really the name of it). The rest of the family stayed in Pueblo to finish out the school year and over the summer, they would all relocate. I stayed in Pueblo for my job. We wrote letters back and forth every day and I penned mine on stationary that I had purchased with some of my graduation money – a box filled with bright neon orange and green and yellow sheets and matching envelopes. He used a yellow legal pad with white envelopes (once a debater, always a debater). They were love letters of sorts and also a daily journal of what we had done that day and whatever it is that eighteen year olds write to one another when they are falling in love. I wish I still had them.

I say all that to say that even after working two jobs all summer and putting in lots and lots of hours because he had nothing else to do really, at the end of the summer he had no money to show for his efforts. Not because he spent it all on himself, but because his family was struggling financially trying to get moved and established in Denver, and Paul signed over his paycheck to them every week. That, with what his dad was bringing home, kept the wolf from the door until they could get on their feet.

He returned to Pueblo at the end of the summer to start school at the local college where we both had full scholarships and got a job at Sears selling paint to pay for gas to get back and forth to class from the home of a family friend who boarded him for free.

In December he returned to Denver to spend the holidays with his family and when he came back for the second semester we got engaged.and set the wedding for September. And yes, I know., We were too young, we were too poor, we were too stupid, we were too. . . . But that’s the way the story goes.

I think it must have been sometime in the spring, maybe over Spring Break, we went to Denver to visit his family. His mother wanted to go to the mall, and usually when Judy made a plan, it was going to happen. So we were walking through the mall, window shopping and visiting and at some point we ended up at the Sear’s jewelry counter. His mother stopped to look – she loved jewelry! I think I wandered off in a different direction to look at sweaters or some such thing and she called me back. She was pointing at engagement rings. “So when you get a ring, what kind do you like?” I hadn’t really thought about it. “Well. . . I like white gold,” I offered. “But what STYLE do you like?” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you like that one?” Not really, though I could’t really give her a reason. “What about that one?” Uuummmm. . . it’s okay. “That one?” No. “How about that one?” Yeah. I do sort of like that. She got the sales clerk’s attention, “Can we try that one on?” I put it on my finger. “What do you think?” she wanted to know. I thought it was pretty. “Okay, we’ll take it,” she told the clerk. And just like that, I had picked out my engagement ring. Had I known we were actually going to buy a ring that day, I’m not sure it’s what I would have chosen. But I did like it well enough. Looking back, I know we went to the mall that day to get a ring, and when Judy makes a plan . . .

Over the years, I wore it and the plain matching wedding band without really giving it much thought or notice. I wore it when I kneaded bread and when I bathed babies. When I washed dishes and when I folded laundry. When I slammed the door after a fight about who knows what and when I caressed his face and said, “I’m sorry “. When I taught my little ones to hold a pencil and when I walked down the street holding hands with the one who had put it on my finger at the altar. I wore it when I wiped away tears from little faces and from my own and when I served up ice cream floats to college students as we sat on the front porch on hot summer nights.

And then one day, about 20 years later, I looked down at my hand and the diamond was missing from the ring. It was not a big diamond, but now there seemed to be a huge gaping hole where the stone should have been. I had no idea how long it had been missing or when or where I lost it. I only knew it was gone, and I was devastated. All of a sudden the ring that had not mattered, mattered so much. Money was tight and while Paul wanted to get the stone replaced, I insisted that we should just get plain bands and wait on a diamond . . . so that’s what we did. For twenty years, we wore plain gold bands and I told myself it was way more practical anyway. Paul continued to wear his original band on his right hand and sometimes people would ask him why he wore two wedding rings. “This one is from my first marriage,” he would say. I wore my mother’s engagement ring and wedding band on my right hand which is another story for another day called The Fellowship of the Ring but also worth reading.

And then on September 5, 2009, on our 40th wedding anniversary, Paul had a gift for me. He put a black velvet ring box in my hand. I thought maybe he had bought me an anniversary band. When I opened it, there was my ring. With a new stone in it. And yes, I cried. He was explaining he had wanted to replace it with a bigger diamond but it would need a new setting to do that and that would have been more expensive. And that he was sorry the diamond was so small, and he wished it were bigger and maybe he should have just gotten a new ring altogether. How could I explain to him everything this ring meant to me after 40 years?

That this ring told the story of not just his love and his care for me, but for his parents and how he had spent all his summer wages to help them. That I had learned that a man who would care for his parents like that would care for his wife and sacrifice for her which he had done over and over and over again. It told the story of my mother-in-law and her generosity and her love and care for me. It told the story of our marriage: that it had never been built on money or expensive things but on love and commitment and our promise to one another. That ring, which had cost $160 in 1969, held so many stories. It was irreplacable. No, I did not want a different ring.

And now, as our 50th anniversary approaches (but how can we have been married 50 years??!!), Paul made a plan – he is his mother’s son. He wanted to put a bigger, better stone in the ring. “Because,” he said, “fifty years is a really big deal.”. I agreed. Fifty years is a big deal. But only if they could put it in the original setting and make it work. So we took it to a jeweler who helped us to choose the right stone and will repair the crack in the band and give it back better than new. And now this will become part of the story as well.

Side bar: A couple of years ago, I had a minor surgery which required general anesthesia. Following the doctor’s directions, I removed all my jewelry and left it on my dresser before I went to the hospital. I got all the typical warnings and instructions before I returned home: don’t drive, don’t operate heavy machinery, don’t sign any documents or make any major decisions, don’t use the stove. etc. When we returned home, Paul deposited me on the couch, and went across the street to get me a salad. He was gone maybe 15 minutes. During that time I saw my jewelry on the dresser and decided it needed to be cleaned ( I have NEVER cleaned my jewelry before in my life) so I took it all to the bathroom, plugged and filled the sink, slathered it with jewelry cleaner, washed it all off, dried it off, drained the sink, and put it back on – earrings, necklace, bracelet, etc. A few minutes later I noticed I was not wearing my wedding ring. I retraced by steps, looked all over the counter, and decided it must have been in the sink when I drained the water. About this time, Paul returned home. “We have a small problem,” and I explained the situation. “But all we need to do is take apart the pipe under the sink, and there it will be. Easy peasie.” The problem was, it wasn’t in the pipe. I could feel the panic rising. Paul said maybe he could disconnect the pipe in the basement and find it that way. Nope. Full blown panic was setting in. I was in tears and could not be comforted. Paul sat on the bathroom bench next to me: “It’s okay. It’s just a ring. We can get another ring. It’s just a symbol. We are the real thing. And we still have each other. That’s the important thing.” By now I was wailing. “NO!! THE IMPORTANT THING IS THAT WE FIND THAT RING! I HAVE HAD THAT RING FOR ALMOST 50 YEARS AND IT’S IRREPLACEABLE!” Okay, so maybe the hysteria was coming from the drugs still in my system. . . but still. . .

I could hear Paul in the living room calling plumbers, It was after 5:00 so it was hard to get anybody to answer. but he was trying. To calm myself, I stood up and began aimlessly moving things around the bathroom counter. And there, carefully tucked under the soap dish where I had obviously put it for safe keeping but had no memory of doing so, was my ring. That which had been lost was found and now I cried uncontrollable happy tears (didn’t Jesus tell a story something like this?).

Like a marriage of 50 years

Two lessons to learn from this chapter of the story: (1) Always follow your doctor’s instructions after anesthesia, though in my defense nobody said anything about not cleaning your jewelry and (2) The worth of an object is not always measured by monetary value but by the stories we attach to it. Some things are irreplaceable.

Lila’s Last Campaign

February 15, 2019February 19, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 2 Comments

On a hot August day in 1962, my sister loaded up me and her five kids in her station wagon and took us to the District 60 Stadium in Pueblo, Colorado, to hear President John Kennedy speak. I have no idea what his speech was about and the PA system made it impossible to understand his words even if I had been interested, which I wasn’t. I was twelve years old and would rather be at the pool, but afterwards we got to stop at the A&W Drive-In and get root beer floats. . . so that was pretty cool.

I’m not sure what her motivation was. Maybe she wanted us to be able to tell our kids that we had been there the day the President of the United States came to our city. Maybe it was because she was looking for something to do with six kids on a hot summer day. Maybe she was inspired by this young, handsome, charismatic president. Or maybe she believed that citizens should be active in their government and engage in the process and she was always one to teach by example. Whatever her reasons, I do remember the day and the event and the fact that we were there.

Fast forward 21 years. Now she is on the front lines of local politics: organizing volunteers to help a candidate get elected to the Pueblo City Council. He is young and passionate and wanting to make a difference in his community and she is convinced he has the wherewithal to govern and help the city so she throws herself into the campaign and learns a lot in the process. Her candidate did not win but he went on to serve his community through his law practice, his election to the Pueblo Water Board, and supporting and working to get other worthy candidates elected to public office, always recruiting the best organizer and recruiter he knew to join in the fight – that woman who had dragged him, his siblings and me to see a president on a hot summer day. A woman whom he called Mom and I called Lila.

Over the years, Lila was a force to be reckoned with. She was an expert at organizing and recruiting volunteers and putting them to work, ensuring that things ran smoothly. She was adept at managing call lists. She and her son worked to elect a governor and when a woman she knew, respected and trusted ran for County Commissioner, Lila and two other women managed a campaign which got her candidate elected.

Fast forward 46 years. The family gathers from near and far – aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews and children and grandchildren and great grandchildren – to celebrate the historic election and inauguration of Pueblo’s first mayor in over 60 years – Nicholas Gradisar. How happy she would be to know Pueblo is in such good hands. And we say to one another, “Wouldn’t she have loved to see this?!”

But that formidable campaign operative whose first foray into politics was to campaign for her son’s election to city council so many years ago has been gone for exactly six years. And though she didn’t live long enough to see him take the oath of office as mayor of this city she knew and loved and invested in, her spirit hangs in the air and seems to hover over all of it.

But if Lila is gone, she has left in her stead some pretty good replacements. All of Nick’s siblings have rallied to the cause. They campaign, they mobilize, they show up and do their part to get their brother elected. His sister Kay in particular seems to channel her mother and has the same bulldog tenacity when it comes to getting it done.

Kay, still working the phones on inauguration day.

After the swearing in, we have lunch and then walk down the River Walk to sit on the bench which was donated in her name to the city of Pueblo and offers a respite for walkers out for a stroll or for exercise. We take pictures and share her stories and say, “Wouldn’t she have loved this day?”

Family gathers from Colorado, Nebraska, Wyoming, and Maryland.

Really, the only thing that would have made that day better is if we had been able to cap it off at the A&W Drive-In and toast this day and her with root beer floats. So here’s to you, Lila. Ya done good!

Who Killed Santa Claus?

December 1, 2018February 17, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 2 Comments

The intersection of story and memory and perception is a funny thing. It isn’t just the details of the narrative but how we perceived it at the time – in other words it’s not just what happened but how did our five year old self understand what was happening – that’s where the story lives.

*Santa visited our house every Christmas Eve with his elves and pack of presents. That’s me in the pony tail with my back to the camera*.

Our kids will tell you that we didn’t “do Santa Claus” for religious reasons. In fact, the truth is nothing so noble. Paul and I were both raised on the fat man in the red suit who brought toys to good boys and girls. As parents, we didn’t do Santa Claus because we couldn’t afford many presents and I wanted the credit for giving them the cool gift. There, I’ve said it out loud and now you know what a truly selfish and awful person I really am. I wasn’t going to let Santa swoop in at the last minute to give them that thing I had scrimped and saved and stood in the blocks-long line to get the day it went on sale. The jolly old man had made not one sacrifice to obtain this year’s must-have toy, and he certainly was not going to get to play the hero in my stead.

Our kids each got three gifts from us – I think because that’s the way it was in Paul’s family. We tried to get them one thing they really wanted, and then the other two were something small: a book, a craft, something to go with their toy (an outfit for the new doll, etc.) or maybe new pajamas or slippers (One year I sewed nightgowns and robes for all the girls. Don’t ask – I have no idea why I thought that was a good idea. This is the same year that Sean found the scraps of fabric on my bedroom floor and was convinced I was making them a Punch & Judy puppet show. Who knows where that came from ??!!) These gifts were purchased, wrapped and hidden away until Christmas morning.

The little gifts they made or bought for one another and for us were carefully selected and fussed over (was this really what she would like or maybe it was that or maybe something else all together??), then wrapped with care and lots of tape and placed under the tree to be poked and prodded and arranged and rearranged all through the weeks leading up to Christmas (and sometimes re-wrapped).

Until Christmas morning.

After they are asleep – or all in bed with a promise of physical harm should they exit their bedroom before morning – Paul and I bring out our oh-so-carefully-chosen and hopefully something-they-will-love offerings. Gifts are always arranged in piles according to the giver so that the emphasis will be on “what you are giving” instead of “what you are getting”. Everything you are giving to someone else is placed in a stack at your spot with your stocking – hand crocheted by Grandma Fletch – and then we wait for the morning.

No one is allowed to leave their bedroom until you hear the music – Manheim Steamroller’s Deck the Halls – blasting loudly enough to wake the dead. Of course, they are all awake, or maybe had never gone to sleep, but they dutifully wait for their cue. The music calls to them and here they come, scrambling down the stairs or up the stairs depending on where their bedroom is, running to find their stocking and their pile of gifts to give and eyeing the stack in front of Mom & Dad. Those will be the last ones distributed.

We start with the youngest who gets to choose in which order he or she wishes to bestow what everyone already knows will be a Life Saver Storybook. I no longer remember how this tradition began, but early on it was the mandated gift that the youngest among them gives to the older siblings. With much fan-fare, everyone oooohs and awwwwwws over it as though it is the biggest surprise of the season and one which they cannot possibly live without.

Gifts are opened one at a time since this allows for time to admire and exclaim over each one and we all compliment the giver on his or her good taste. One by one, we ceremoniously present our gifts to one another and everyone watches as each one is opened. This takes awhile and has the added benefit of alleviating the frenzied ripping of paper that inevitably leads to mass confusion and chaos and cuts down on the number of times we will need to dig through the trash looking for a lost doll shoe, Lego piece or other sundry tiny items. Plus it stretches out the festivities and makes more of a party, which in our family is always a good thing.

And that was Christmas morning.

I don’t know if our kids missed not “doing Santa”. The truth is I never asked them. I realized pretty early on though that we needed to have “the talk” if we didn’t want our friends and neighbors to hate us and our kids. “Some people like to pretend that Santa Clause is real,” we explained, “and that he is the one who brings their children presents and so you can help them by not saying anything that would make them out to be a liar.” I mean, we didn’t say it exactly like that, but we had to coach them up a little to keep the peace.

And then there was the year that one of our Sunday School teachers at church killed Santa Claus. He wanted to teach a lesson about the real Saint Nicholas and how the “Santa Claus” of today grew out of the myths and legends (danger Will Robinson!!) around this real man who lived in the third century. And while I’m sure he meant well (you can probably see already how fraught with peril this plan was), he somehow failed to see the landmine he was about to trip over. So somewhere in his lesson about this kind and generous patron saint of children, he comes to the place in the story where Saint Nichols dies. Now to a small child, who only vaguely understands anything you have said up to this point but who thinks you are telling him that Santa Clause and Saint Nicholas are one and the same, this is, of course, alarming. “Santa Claus died?” asks a small voice in the front row.

At this point, any thinking person would have abandoned his ill-conceived lesson and just gone straight to the craft tables, but he soldiers on. Another little voice, with a hint of a quiver, asks “How did he die?” And then the mother of all landmines: “He was martyred,” says the teacher. KABOOM!! While most sources say Saint Nicholas was persecuted for this faith, I can’t find anybody who says he was martyred, but given this was before the internet, maybe this teacher didn’t have access to good research or maybe he just thought it made for a better story.

At any rate, that’s what the teacher said. Now there is a full-blown panic rising from the masses as one child jumps to his feet and yells SANTA CLAUS WAS MURDERED??!! (martyred or murdered – what’s the difference, really?) And it was at this moment that all hell broke loose and became known in the history of our church as “The Day Cedarbrook Killed Santa Claus.” Our son, who was about 10 and one of the older kids in the class, was standing in the back of the room with a friend who says to him, “Do you still believe in Santa Claus?” Nope. “Me neither. But I sure feel sorry for these kids.”

We fielded a deluge of calls from irate parents that week, letting us know how traumatized their children were as a result of the Sunday School lesson and that when it came time to explain the “Santa situation”, they had expected to be the ones to do it and they certainly would have handled it much differently, thank you very much.

And though I didn’t say it, because I thought it might be too soon, I thought about telling them, “Yes, but just think, now you’ll get to take credit for all that stuff under the tree.”

murdoch — No one was taking credit for this one but me!

Daily Bread

October 24, 2017February 16, 2024 ~ Sharon Abbott ~ 2 Comments

“There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other’s cooking & say it was good.”

It is one of my favorite Story People stories. We have it framed and hanging on our “family wall” in our living room. I think it belongs there because food is a part of every family’s story whether we recognize it or not – or at least it is a part of our story.

It’s the story behind Crescent Rolls and Chicken & Noodles. Canned Jellied Cranberry Sauce and Donuts. Chili and Cinnamon Rolls. Tuna Noodle Casserole and Vegetable Soup. Coconut Pie and Apple Pie made from orchard apples. Bread and Wine.

My mother was the best cook of anyone I have ever known. I, on the other hand, got married barely knowing how to boil water. Paul always thought it was a bait-and-switch: he came to my house, ate my mother’s cooking and just assumed it was a genetic thing and this is what he could expect when we were eating out of our own kitchen. It was a hard adjustment for him – we ate out a lot and went to my mom’s house once a week for dinner. But slowly I began to take an interest and figured some things out.

Crescent Rolls: On our first son’s first birthday, I wanted to do something special. So I opened my Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook I had received from my niece as a wedding gift with the inscription that read: “Dear Paul, good luck. You’re going to need it.” I found a recipe for Crescent Rolls. Perfect! How hard could this be. Turns out . . . pretty hard. It was a time-consuming recipe which took most of the day, but so worth it! Over the years I tweaked the recipe to my liking and they became a “must have” for holiday meals. The story is still told about the year that “one of us” set his alarm and rose at 5:00 a.m. on the day after Thanksgiving to eat all the leftover rolls before anyone else could get to them – in a big family one must learn to out-wit, out-play and out-last the competition. We’ve had some glitches along the way. There was the year I forgot to set the timer and burned the bottoms to a blackened charcoal on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. So we cut the bottoms off, slathered them with butter and called it dinner that evening. Then I set to work on the next batch which took me late into the night. There were years the yeast didn’t rise because the milk was too hot or not hot enough and I had to start over. But if you come to our house on Thanksgiving or Christmas, you will get Crescent Rolls.

Chicken-and-Noodles: In those early years as I was expanding my repertoire I asked Paul, “What did your mother cook that you really loved.” He fired back, “Home-made Chicken and Noodles!!” So I made the long distance call to his mother to get the recipe and set out to wow him. I followed exactly the recipe my mother-in-law had copied from a newspaper column decades before. When it said, “Roll the dough very thin and cut into strips,” I labored with my rolling pin, stretching and rolling and pulling and rolling until the dough was indeed paper-thin. It was a labor of love, if a frustrating exercise, but I was determined to replicate his mother’s dish. I sat down to dinner ready to bask in his awe and admiration and gratitude. “What is it?” He stared into his bowl of paper-thin, perfectly cut noodles swimming in broth. Are you kidding me? It’s Chicken and Noodles! “No” NO??!! “Well, it’s not my mother’s chicken and noodles.” So I got up from the table to make another call. “I followed the recipe exactly and he says I didn’t get it right? What happened.?” I could hear the commotion in the background as she was rushing to get dinner on the table for the six kids still at home. “Read the recipe back to me,” she said over the din of two kids arguing over whose turn it was to the set the table. When I came to the part about rolling the dough paper thin, she interrupted me. “Oh good grief, Sherry! I never had time to mess with that nonsense. Just give it a few swipes of the rolling pin and call it good!” Okay then. And so now my own family thinks if the the noodles are not thick and almost chewy with a thick broth and huge chunks of chicken – then it’s not really Chicken and Noodles. Following a recipe can be so over-rated.

Jellied Cranberry Sauce: As I honed my skills in the kitchen I developed an attitude that “made- from-scratch-is-always-better” and so cranberry sauce should be made with fresh cranberries and a zested orange. Truth be told, nobody ever ate it but me, but that’s how I did it. Then our son-in-law joined the family and when we sat down to Thanksgiving dinner his first year he asked for the cranberry sauce. It was passed around the table to him. Nope. He was looking for the jellied cranberry sauce that comes out of a can. Now, every year, he gets a whole can of it to himself, and I eat the other. And everybody goes home happy.

Donuts: We were at the beach and Paul and I were headed out to the grocery store. I called out “Does anybody need or want anything from the store?” The four year old grandson never looked up from his Lego’s. “How ‘bout donuts!?” he yelled. And now, twelve years and eight grand-kids later, you haven’t been to Nana & Colonel’s until you’ve gone for donuts. The littles always love to hear how, when we were first married, Colonel was the guy who made the donuts at Dunkin’ Donuts and could eat all the donuts he wanted every night. I know, it’s not hard to impress them when they’re young.

Chili and Cinnamon Rolls: In both our families, the traditional Christmas Eve dinner was soup. At the Abbotts it was Chili. At the Fletchers it was Chile and Potato Soup and Oyster Stew. At the Fletcher’s it was Cinnamon Rolls and Potica (a wonderful Slavic Sweet Bread introduced to our food culture by my brother-in-law’s family). At the Abbotts it was Cinnamon Rolls and since I never mastered the art of Potica making, we stick to the Cinnamon Rolls. There was the year that I got distracted in the making and instead of dividing the dough into halves to make out the rolls I divided it into thirds and ended up making more, but much smaller rolls. I didn’t realize my mistake until one of the kids who was home for the holidays said, “It’s funny, when I was a kid these rolls seemed to be so big they filled your whole plate and now it seems like I could eat three of them,” Yup, pretty much. The year our son was in Iraq we sent a can of Hormel Chili and a box of Honey Buns in his Christmas package. In some way or another, I think most of the kids have carried on the tradition and live out the story.

Passing down the story from generation to generation.

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Tuna Noodle Casserole and Vegetable Soup: Like most families, in ours you got to pick the dinner menu on your birthday. When our youngest was little, his favorite meal was Tuna Noodle Casserole. Nobody else really liked it so we rarely had it, but on his birthday he got to choose. One year he was spending his birthday with some family friends because Paul and I had to be out of town. Peggy asked him what he wanted for dinner. Tuna Noodle Casserole – of course! “Does your mom have a special recipe she uses?” Having five kids of her own she understood the risk of making something that was not like Mom’s. “Yes, she does. It’s on the back of the box.” And though her own kids gagged on it, she made Tuna Helper straight from the box and Fletcher was delighted. Clearly by the sixth one I had abandoned the “made-from-scratch-is-always-better” ideology.

Tabithas’s request was always Vegetable Beef Soup – preferably without the beef. The other kids groaned – what kid really LIKES soup? But that was what we had every March 4th. Even on the years that spring came early and we were eating soup with the air conditioning on. The one thing that redeemed her choice is that she always asked for Boston Cream Pie, and who doesn’t like that?

Pie: We are a family of pie lovers. Favorites may vary from individual to individual but somewhere in our DNA is a “pie-lover” gene. My mother taught me to make pie crust. To her, pie-making was an art form. I learned from her to treat the crust gently and carefully – don’t overwork it or the crust will be tough; use only as much water as you need to make the dough hold together and make sure the water is ice cold. She was a master craftsman.

When Fletcher wanted to bring a girl home from college to meet us I told him to find out what her favorite dessert was and I would make it for her. “It’s Coconut Pie”, he told me. “Wow! What are the odds?” I asked him. “You really do have a a lot in common!!” And so every time she came for a visit we had Coconut Pie. It wasn’t until many years later at their rehearsal dinner I learned the truth. Emily’s mom wanted to know what the deal was with Coconut Pie. I explained I made it every time she came since it was her favorite dessert. “Actually, I don’t think she had ever had it before she came to your house.” As I said – it’s in his genes. He may also be a little manipulative.

Paul’s mother made three chocolate cream pies every report card day. That way if you got good grades you could celebrate. If you got bad grades, you had a way to drown your troubles. My mother made him chocolate pies every time we came for a visit and threatened if there was any left, she threatened never make another one for him. He always rose to the challenge.

And then there were the Apple Pie Baking Marathons. When the older kids were little, every fall Grandma Fletch would come for a month-long visit. She cooked and baked and told stories and loved us well. One of our days we spent at a nearby orchard. We picked apples – bushels of apples – and returned home to roll up our sleeves and get ready for the days long process of pie baking. She set up an assembly line. Everybody had a job to do: washing the apples, peeling and coring and slicing, combining the sugar and cinnamon and then mixing it all together in a big bowl with the fruit. Grandma was always in charge of the pie crust. After several days we would have dozens of pies: baked, wrapped and ready for the freezer. All year long, anytime we wanted a special dessert, we could go to the ancient chest freezer in the garage and pull out a pie to stick in the oven and soon the house would be filled with the buttery, cinnamony, apple aroma that took us back to the way the house smelled on those days we worked side-by-side next to the Master Pie Baker herself and created all that deliciousness. For years after she was gone, we kept the ritual. We went to the orchard on a crisp fall day, picked the apples, and formed our assembly line just as she had taught us to do. The year we stopped was the day it was time to go apple picking and there were still pies in the freezer. The family was shrinking and we no longer had the mouths to feed or the laborers. But anytime I smell apple pie, I can still see us all in the kitchen with Hazel, each doing our job.

Bread and Wine: I have begun to feel that gathering at the table, sharing food and drink and sharing stories is a sacred experience.

When his followers asked him, “Teach us to pray”, Jesus included this: Give us today our daily bread. Maybe this is about more than just nourishment for our physical bodies; maybe it is also about the table where we gather to tell our stories, nourish our souls and remember who we are.

I am struck by how many stories about Jesus are about the table. He goes to dinner parties with outsiders and undesirables, he performs his first miracle at a wedding feast, he provides a picnic for 5,000 people on a hillside, he cooks dinner for his friends on a beach, and 2,000 years later we are still telling those stories.

And then there is this: knowing he was going to die, he sat down around a table to share a meal with those who had shared his journey and would continue on without him. Because that’s what the family does in such a time. He washes their feet and cares for them with such love and affection. Around that table of special foods filled with such rich meaning, they remember and retell the story of the Jews miraculous exodus from Egypt and God’s faithfulness. But before the meal is over, he will take the bread and the wine from that same table and use it to explain to them the hard truth of what is to come: the bread is his body which will be broken for them and the wine is his blood which will be poured out to forgive the sins of many. They had no idea what it meant. Or what was to come.

But we do know. He left us this gift of symbol and remembrance and ritual. And time after time, we gather and remember and retell the story. “As often as you do this,” he said, “do it in remembrance of me.” Jesus, too, knew the power of story, of remembering and of gathering around a table.

Perhaps, in the end, that is the real reason we are here.

because our stories matter

Once Upon My Story

family

The Outlaws

Minnie Alice

Where Were the Adults?

The Things We Share

I Wish . . .

It’s Complicated

With This Ring. . .

Lila’s Last Campaign

Who Killed Santa Claus?

Daily Bread

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