Last week, in the 32 degree weather, I headed to swim in the pool outside. I was intent on just reusing words I had written in the spring of 2020, for my next story. As I started to move through the warm water, thoughts and words swam around me. At the foundation of these thoughts, were the original words:
Growing up, I always considered my paternal grandmother (who I was very close to) the be strongest woman I knew. She had gone through tragedy and continued to carry herself with strength and dignity. I wanted to emulate my grandmother; I still hold her as a role model to live up to. She was like an Oak tree, tall and strong.
The Angel Oak Tree
A desert flower
My mother, on the other hand, is more like a flower in the desert. Something that has to have incredible strength to endure the hardships of where it has to grow. Like a flower, my mother doesn’t appear as if she would have the need of strength. She has had to go through more than one person should have to. Over the past few years, I have come to recognize that my strength comes somewhat from my grandmother, but mostly from my mom. Not only was my mother strong in the hand that she was dealt in life, but has helped me to be strong when I needed it most. She would have come to London, after the Lockerbie tragedy, had I wanted her to. When I was going through a dark period, she came to Boston . She helped lift me up when when I was separated from my first husband and pregnant with my firstborn; then through my eldest daughters first year of life. As life goes on, my mom continues to be here for me and I try to be there for her. I hope her strength will pass on to my daughters.
With each stroke I realized that I have surrounded myself with strong women, all mothers . I envisioned a garden where the flora represented my friends. A kind of poem started to form….
Each time I swam this past week, I thought about this poem (I am not poet). In the end, I couldn’t think of one of my friends who has not had to carry something heavy in their soul. Does everyone have to go through hard times? I look at my grandmother, my mother… perhaps this is human nature. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that my family and my friends are resilient, each with a special strength to be revered.
Growing up I loved fairytales. Like many little girls, I dreamed of being beautiful, like a princess. The year my family moved from Winnipeg, Manitoba to Central Pennsylvania I was six years old. Everything changed: I entered a new school, was introduced to new kids and went to someone else for medical care. My new pediatrician told my mother that I was overweight and needed to go on a diet. Of course, my mother felt the doctor must be correct; our old pediatrician never led her astray. At the age of six, I began watching my weight and felt more like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister’s.
A fun clown costume for me, but I suppose i did my makeup.
My eating habits changed. I ate snacks of celery stuffed with peanut butter and raisins before swim practice; soft boiled eggs instead of fried for breakfast, and never butter only margarine. I loved Halloween and my mom made us elaborate costumes each year. I collected tons of candy and froze all the chocolates; this helped me not consume the calories so quickly. My candy lasted for months after my sister and brother had finished theirs.
I was shy and listened more than I talked. I heard my aunts and mother talk about the latest fad diets. Everyone aspired to be thin and pretty. My grandmother was tiny and was disappointed that my mother was tall and “big boned”, when she was growing up. I feel like I have always known this. The way people looked, how they dressed and what their figures were like was always a topic of conversation on my mother’s side of the family. This is a fact, not a criticism.
What was hard for me to hear was how everyone talked about my sister’s beauty. I loved and admired my sister, but always felt I lived in her shadow. She was tall and thin with sea green eyes that could pierce you when she was angry. My sister didn’t realize that she was beautiful. I just heard the talk surrounding her good looks and felt like a lesser person because in the eyes of others I did not measure up. I was not the beautiful princess. These were my feelings, it didn’t mean this is how people viewed me. However, one year, in middle school, a boy wrote in my yearbook “ I hope you turn out like your sister”, confirming to me what I believed.
The summer after sixth grade.
The ”chubby” years, this picture was taken in the fall of fifth or sixth grade.
During the ‘tween years, the pre-pubescent years, many children gain extra weight. I did and was probably a little overweight. In sixth grade I became friends with a girl in my class. When I went to her house we would borrow her sisters Candies and dance to ABBA music. This was a sight to be seen, mainly because I have no rhythm and the Candies were three inches high. My friend and I made a New Years resolution to lose weight. I lost twenty pounds. I wasn’t starving myself and I may have grown a few inches during this time. The same pediatrician who said I was overweight was now worried that I had anorexia.
At fifteen I had back surgery, this was a choice I made; it greatly enhanced my self esteem. I couldn’t swim or do any sports for six months. I went outside and walked as often as I could, even during the months I wore my back-brace. Throughout this time I couldn’t worry about my weight, only my recovery. The following summer, I was sixteen. My sister was on a bicycle trip in Europe, I met my first boyfriend. He didn’t know my sister. For the first time I felt “seen”.
Me at 16
In college I started worrying about my weight once again. During freshman year I went to many parties, but during one party in particular an upperclassman looked over at me and said “you’re a whale”, then proceeded to laugh with his friends. In sophomore year, my love for aerobic exercise became borderline obsession. I ran, swam, and cycled; If I didn’t participate heavily in at least two of these activities each day I berated myself. After sophomore year in college and for some years into my twenties I felt good about myself.
New Year’s Eve at age 25
When I was 26, I started dating a young man who constantly talked about his heavy his ex-girlfriend. One day we saw her, from afar, in a restaurant. He explained who she was and said, “Isn’t she fat?”. I responded, “She’s not much heavier than me”. Our relationship ended shortly thereafter. My childhood image of myself flooded right back in. I don’t know why he decided to end it, but our relationship was ultimately doomed for failure.
The next man I started dating, I eventually married. There were so many good things about him, but we both had behaviors from past experiences that just worked against us. After we had been dating for about six months I “opened the door” and asked him if I was too heavy; at that moment I gave away my power. He walked right through the door and soon policed all my food. I went to weight watchers and lost about 14 pounds, but was still not thin enough. He wanted me to be a size 4. Having inherited my father’s short waist, made it extremely hard to be this thin. I started cutting out all of the tags in my clothes because I was ashamed that I could rarely fit in a size smaller than a 6. After losing a lot of weight, and keeping my hair just so, he continued to compare me to other women.
Was this bridal portrait foreshadowing the life that would not be?
After a year of marriage we sought professional help. I started feeling better emotionally. The weekend I found out I was pregnant, my then husband was out of town. When he arrived home he told me he was taking a trip to “think about our marriage”; at the same time he asked me not to run, until I had the go ahead from my obstetrician . When I finally talked with my doctor, the nausea had set in and I no longer felt like running. Later in the fall, yet early in my pregnancy, he left for Texas to “ponder” our future together. Upon returning home, he announced he wanted a trial separation. The therapeutic work I had done on myself started to slip backwards, just a little. I was hormonal and working through a marriage that was failing. I ate whatever I craved to help me through my grief. Being busy with work, driving an hour (or more) to and from work, and going to therapy three times a week did not give me any time to swim. I gained 50lbs.
Once we were separated, despite the weight gain, I felt better about myself because I started making my own choices; my sense of self worth once again improved. My free time was used to focus on my mental well being and, just as importantly, the life I was carrying inside me. I didn’t dwell on what my husband thought about my appearance. Eventually, I decided to end the marriage.
This is one of the only photos I have within a year after the birth of my first child. Obviously this picture was taken shortly after my daughter was born.
When my daughter was about 9 months old I had a conversation with my first boyfriend. We remained friends after we dated and corresponded off and on, but not for 10 years. As we started talking again, I was reminded of who I had once been. I took back my power.
Almost a year after my daughter was born, my brother got married. I had lost some, but not all, of my pregnancy weight. At the wedding someone said to me “You know Sarah, not everyone is meant to be thin”. Words that were possibly meant with good intent, were not received well. I internalized them and was once again the 6 year old at the pediatrician’s office.
This picture of me was taken almost 2 years after the birth of my first child.
After my divorce was final, I started to think about dating again. When my daughter was 16 months old I met the man I am now married to. He didn’t have expectations about how someone should appear, nor care if I decided to change my hair. We have been together for over 20 years and have two more children. I am fortunate to have found a man that I love. He cherishes. me despite the roller coaster ride we have had in life
A picture taken of me, just last week, by my youngest child
I read my children fairytales and let them watch “princess movies”, explaining to them that beauty comes from within. Over the years I have tried to instill healthy eating habits for my family, without being negative about food. An active lifestyle was something I encouraged. Candy was allowed. I’m not sure what messages they have received from me. My children have seen me go to weight watchers and participate in Noom, mainly because I want to maintain a healthy weight. I am confident in most of the choices I make and who I have become. There will always be that little girl voice at the back of my mind telling me to lose weight. The young adult me will continue to niggle in my head, telling me I am not worthy because I do not live up to someone else’s standards. I know I am more than this.
Read your children fairytales, but let them know that nobody is perfect. Tell them that Cinderella’s beauty came from the kindness she showed others, the hard work she did, and the life she created for herself with her animal friends…When they grow too old for the fairytales of their youth, read them fairytale a poem by Becky Hemsley. Post it on the wall or mirror and remind them they are who they CHOOSE to be; this is where true beauty lies.
Research says that life on earth may have begun in water. Sometimes I feel as if I were born in the water. I don’t remember a time that I did not know how to swim, although I probably did not start learning until the summer I was two. Water, wherever it is, pulls me like a magnet. I love to swim! I know there are others like me in their enthusiasm for swimming because I have met them. No matter how much I enjoy swimming there are some people who are even more passionate in their pursuit of this sport than me. Are you one of those people?
Attempting to swim?
THE LAKE
Although I swim in pools most of the year, I have typically had one constant place to swim in the summer which is a lake. Growing up and even now, I swim in a lake in Ontario, Canada. The lake, in a regional municipality called Muskoka, was carved in prehistoric times by retreating glaciers. I feel lost when I cannot spend at least a little time each year swimming here; this place renews my spirit.
Muskoka
When I was young I took lessons at a club in Muskoka; then, in my teenage years, I taught swimming at the very same place.
Swimming lessons in Muskoka
Playing in the water
After a swim
There have only been three summers in my life where I could not swim through the cool waters in Muskoka: the first was when I had just given birth to my oldest child; the second when I was pregnant with my middle child; and the third when COVID locked down the world.
The summer after my middle child was born, I realized that swimming back and forth from the dock to the raft just wasn’t giving me the kind of swim I wanted. I had a bad habit of swimming extremely crooked, thus going off course. I bought what I call a “swim cord” and have been using one ever since. The swim cord is essentially a resistance cord with a loop at one end and on the other end there is an area for a water belt. The loop is attached to the ring on the dock, the belt goes around my waist, then into the water I go for a great workout!
The little pool created by the creek
During COVID, I felt like a fish out of water. Everything was closed. As the summer drew near, it became apparent that we would not get to Canada. I spent time pondering where I could easily swim. I thought perhaps I could swim in the little pool of water, created by a creek, about half a mile walk through the woods from our house. I looked at the trees to see if I could attach my swim cord and swim in place. Unfortunately there were two problems. The first was that I had left my long swim cords at our cottage in Canada. The second was the creek ran along a sewer line…in the end the idea was squashed.
SWIMMING POOLS
This past Christmas my husband gave me a license plate frame that says ” I love the smell of chlorine in the morning”; this was the perfect gift for me because for at least ten months out of the year I swim in chlorinated water…
In the winter, when I was little, I swam at a club named for the season. Not only did I swim there, but I learned to ice skate. I suppose if we had lived in Winnipeg long enough I may have also learned how to curl.
From the time I was six until just before I turned fifteen, I spent hours in a pool that was on a Naval base in central Pennsylvania; this is where I swam competitively. I have no idea how my parents found this place for me to swim or the team for me to compete on. Neither of my parents were in the military. I was a good swimmer, winning many races over the years. The smell of chlorine permeated my skin and hair. My blond hair always had a greenish tint. One day, in 4th grade, a boy walked past me in the library…the next thing I heard, was him whispering “Sarah smells like pee”. I knew the smell was the scent of chlorine; I was mortified! From that day on, I took a thorough shower which only lightened the smell. I stopped swimming competitively when I had back surgery at the age of fifteen.
My travel swim cord
Since my years at the navy base, I have spent time swimming in other pools: the old, not quite 25 yard, one at my college; YMCA’s in Pennsylvania, Washington state, and Massachusetts; then sometimes hotels where I attach my travel swim cord to the handrail of the stairs….
My “second home”
The pool I have belonged to the longest, is a fifteen minute drive from my house; it is part of an athletic club. By this June I will have been a member of this pool for 25 years. When I moved to the area In 1997, I was training for my first triathlon. At the time, there was only one place that had somewhere to swim year-round. When I joined this club, the pools were outdoors: two were 25 yards, one was for instruction and play, there was a baby area and hot tub. I was fascinated to find out that when the weather grew cool, all but one of these pools had a dome that went over top. Typically, the dome going up or coming down takes approximately a week.
Some of my swim stuff under the dome
I met my first friend at the pool when I was heavily pregnant with my second child. All the lanes were full. A tall, lean woman called to me and said “swim with me, you will be safe. I swim straight and will not kick your belly”. Over a period of months we became “swim friends”. I have made many swimming friends over the years. Occasionally, we take time away from the water to do something else.
When COVID hit, like everything else, my club closed. Luckily, the pool was the first part of the club to reopen. The swimmers were welcomed back before anyone else. Only the downstairs locker rooms that led to the outdoor pool entrances were open and only to use the toilet. The hours and procedures for swimming had changed. We had to reserve a lane for certain hour and there was a limited amount of time we were allowed to swim. We checked in outside, had our temperatures taken and headed to the pool. I was extremely impressed with how organized the managers made the “soft reopening”. Over the next several months the rest of the club reopened. I stuck to the water, my yoga friends were no longer at the club and I decided being near the chlorine was safest. I did not enter the gym until the beginning of last month (March 2022). At my club COVID changed things in a way I can’t quite describe. A place that I had spent hours at with my kids, by myself, and with friends, felt united in a way it had not before. Perhaps it was because there were fewer people or maybe COVID made people slow down and get to know each other.
For many reasons, in 2020, the dome did not go up when planned. I swam outside until December 24th; it was awesome!
When the dome went up last season, the pool was closed for awhile. I got a three day pass to another club. I dipped my toe in a different pool. There were many things I liked about this other place, but it felt strange. I missed my “home”, my friends, and was glad when my pool reopened.
I have been a swimmer forever! The sound the liquid makes when my ears are under the water is something I have always enjoyed. I like the feeling when I am moving through waves or a placid body of water. Life may have changed the speed at which I swim, but it hasn’t changed the way I feel about the sport. I hope to be able swim until the day I die…I love the smell of chlorine in the morning, but hate the scent that lingers in the afternoon!
Not every story needs to be written. There are other ways to tell a tale. I prefer to use the written word, but I am going to attempt to share a time in my life with (mostly) pictures.
Three years ago, I would have told you that Los Angeles was one of the places I desired least to travel to. In May of 2019, we made a decision that would forever change our lives. The decision took us to LA more times than I could have ever imagined…..one day I hope I am able to tell you about my journey in words.
For now, this is my pictorial story of my time spent in southern California:
June2019
We drove to the coast, emotionally and physically exhausted, after saying goodbye to one of our own. The sun did not warm the sadness in my soul. The ocean showed me the vast journey that lay before us.
July 2019
These pictures were taken on one of my two trips to LA in July.
Agora Hills: the first area we stayed
August 2019: These pictures were taken on one of my two trips to LA in August.
Sunset: driving the Pacific Coast Highway after a long flight
This trip was for my husband children and myself. During this time we tried to add some levity to a very difficult time
El Matador State Beach
Santa Monica Pier
Griffith Park
A valiant attempt in the blistering sun: a hike on the Griffith Park Trails to the Hollywood sign.
September 2019
Sunrise during an early morning run
October 2019:
The Getty Museum
The Museum of Death
November 2019
December 2019
Trip 1: the weekend of December 14-15
Malibu Creek State Park: a hike to the area where scenes from the tv show MASH were filmed.
Trip 2: December 24-31,
An attempt to bring us together and add some fun, in an otherwise excruciatingly hard time.
Christmas Day Hike in Malibu Creek State Park
Universal City December 26, 2019The only snow we experienced over the holidaysThe view from Universal City
View from a hike in Topanga State Park
January 2020
February 2020: Finally feeling the sun warm our spirits
Early mornings on Venice Beach
March 2020: I flew to LA, in early March, with a fear that I would not make it home. COVID was starting to close down the world. I had a back up plan if the planes were grounded, but that did not happen.
I wanted to go to the water, but not the beach. I found an area called Marina Del Rey and was pleasantly surprised to find sea lions.
Road trip up the coast to Santa Barbara
Old Mission Santa Barbara
Old Mission Santa Barbara
Mid March – End of June 2020
I used this time to regenerate. During the lockdown, not only was I missing the reason we went to LA, but I was missing the area itself. I had grown to love and appreciate the beauty of the rugged hills and the vast beaches.
July 2020-August 2020:A series of four trips were taken to and from LA. Due to COVID many things were closed, but we managed numerous walks and roadtrips.
Many hours were spent in Marina Del Rey and on Venice Beach, just walking.
Venice Canals
On August 27, 2020 we departed LA. We did not return until March 2022 and that was a trip purely for pleasure.
We were emotionally and physically exhausted. I rarely brought my camera; most of these picture were taken with our cell phones. Obviously not every trip had pictorial documentation.
“Will I be able to run anymore?”, I asked the orthopedic surgeon. He gave me a look and said, “What do you think?”. I had just been informed that I had (still have) severe arthritis behind each knee cap. Just another ending, I thought. Another thing to mourn. I ran for 33 years. I was not old, just 51, but I knew for years it was just a matter of time before my knees could take so much
Growing up, I was aware that my father ran almost every day. He typically went out mid day, so I only saw him go out for a jog when I was home. I was born a swimmer. Eventually I followed my fathers lead and began to run. I started in college. On my first or second day of my freshman year in college I was asked if I ran. I said, “No, but I probably could”. We formed a running group. A few days a week we would all run together. Thus, began my love of running.
Me, running with my youngest daughter (not pictured) in Girls on the Run, December 2017. I had not been running for two months due to tearing my ulnar collateral ligament in early October.
Over the years I was in many races: sprint triathlons, 5ks, 10ks, half marathons….
The run, in the picture to the left, was a month post surgery. If you look closely at my right hand you can see that I am still wearing this wrap.
When my eldest child was in high school, I had the pleasure of watching her run cross-country and track. As I watched other runners, I came to realize that some people are born runners and some are self-made runners. The born runners seemed to have perfect form, a long stride and run with little effort. The self made runners were those people who have taken up running not because they were born to run, but because they wanted to run. I was a self-made runner.
My favorite photo from my daughter’s first year running track.
As I approached my 30th year of running, I began to question why I called myself a runner. I did not have great form and I always ran middle of the pack when I raced. Once, I read something about how you know you are a runner. Many of the things it said hit home, but this line summed it up for me: ” your are just not yourself when you don’t run”.
Running became a part of who I was. I was proud when someone said “you look like a runner”. People asked why I ran. “It puts so much stress on your body”, they’d say. Everyone knows that running puts stress on your joints. But running is so much more than that. It helped me to think. It helped me to sleep soundly. It helped me to see the world around me. I could lace up my shoes and run out the front door. Most importantly, running helped me get through many of my darkest times: the times that I felt I could not breathe, running helped me to breathe again
2018 dawned bright with promise. My eldest was accepted at the college of her dreams. My mom took us on a cruise to Alaska to celebrate my daughter turning 18, her graduation and my 50th birthday. I was training for my first half marathon in several years. When we arrived back from Alaska and were settling in for a relaxing summer, our world came tumbling down. Still I ran.
Participation medal from a 5k i went in with my youngest child.
I ran through fall and winter with a heart so heavy I felt like I would implode. I practiced yoga several days a week and used that space to cry on my mat. I ran another half marathon in the spring of 2019, little did I know it would be my last. My running was slower, often I would walk up the hills. My knees did not hurt too much. On I ran.
A year had passed after our life caved in. We were in full crises mode. In the summer of 2019, I ran next to the jasmine scented hills of California.
Running at dawn in Agora Hills, CA
I jogged through the wood laden roads of Muskoka Ontario.
Muskoka Ontario
That summer, in Ontario, I taught myself how to water run properly. I still cried on my yoga mat. By then, my knees were making an audible sound; when I went into warrior II pose, those practicing yoga beside me could also hear my knees rubbing together.
The fall came. I had been slowly working through the pain in my soul. By October my knees were hurting, so I took a break from running. Visiting my daughter in Boston that month, I had plans to do some elaborate walks while she was in class. My first day there, after having breakfast with my eldest, I intended to go on a five mile walk. I started out walking, through neighborhoods I did not know, when my knee went out. All I could do was drop to the sidewalk. I did not run.
I was not able to run to an old age like I wanted. Maybe when I when I became emotionally at peace with everything that was going on in my present, as well as the trauma of my past, I no longer needed my knees to carry me. My running shoes have turned into walking shoes. I go to a pool almost every day. I swim and I run the only way I can: in the water.
I have been raising orchids for years. Almost twelve years ago, I moved into a condominium which had the perfect window for growing orchids. I watched them bloom and then rebloom months later. This brought me a lot of joy when I was going through a difficult period of my life.
A year after I moved to my condo, I had the screened in porch (adjacent to the basement) glassed in; this was to be used as my art room. The room was on ground level and light poured in through windows, perfect for raising plants; this became my hospital for orchids that were not blooming and sometimes looked as though they were dying.
My ugly orchid
One day, last fall, I noticed an orchid that looked strange. The leaves were shriveled and the plant was just plain ugly. Nevertheless, I kept it on the main floor watching what was going to happen. What happened next was not a surprise; it kept getting uglier with roots protruding into the air. I was on the verge of throwing it out. In fact, my son in law, who is an avid orchid grower, told me I should. I decided to persevere and took it to the hospital area of the house.
The orchid was watered whenever I felt like it — probably about every 10 days. Perhaps because of my benign neglect, I started to notice a difference. The roots were still growing upwards but suddenly I thought that some of the roots looked more like the beginning of buds. As time went on this winter, the buds grew larger.
Finally, buds!
I was excited to see this change in a plant that I thought was dying. What color were these buds going to blossom into? Or would the buds shrivel and die before the orchid actually bloomed?
No longer an ugly orchid
I started treating my ugly duckling with loving care and three weeks ago I was rewarded for my perseverance. The blossoms were exploding with color and there were two shoots full of buds.
I don’t know what is going to happen when the blossoms die off. For now, I love going to my art room and looking at my orchid. Some might say this is to be the swan song of this plant. I am patient waiting to find out, hoping it will bloom year after year. Now it joins the other orchids that are blooming in my “hospital” area. It is, at this point, in time no longer a sick bay but a place to watch plants grow and thrive.
As I watered my geraniums today, I was reminded of my grandmother. The scent, although subtle, took me back to times when I would visit my grandparents’ house on the mountain. My grandmother, whom we called Ana, was an avid gardener. I don’t know if she always loved gardening or if the feel of the earth helped her sooth her soul after the death of her only daughter. What I do know is my grandmother introduced me to a love for houseplants and flowers.
The geranium started by my husband, for our youngest child.before my Ana died. The geranium was grown with advice that were gathered from Ana. This plant has be divided and passed between my husband, daughter and me for about 10 years.
In the early 1970’s my grandparents moved from a house on a farm to a house on a mountain. Attached to the house, close to the kitchen, was a greenhouse. My parents moved our family back to Pennsylvania shortly after my grandparents moved into their new house; growing up we spent a lot of time there. When I visited, Ana would always take me to the greenhouse and tell me about her plants. Geraniums were frequent flowers in her sanctuary.
The house overlooked woods. My grandmother had daffodils planted in the earth among the trees. Each spring, the woods would come alive with the yellow flowers. The gardens around the house were somewhat natural, with annuals planted among the shrubbery.
In the summer my grandparents would leave their house on the mountain and go to their summer cottage in Canada. The stairs leading to the front door of the cottage were lined with geranium laden boxes and perhaps there were some on the porch as well. The cottage gardens were planted with many flowers, including phlox, daisies, foxgloves, and forget-me-nots. The paths were lined with hydrangea bushes. If there were fairy gardens when I was growing up, I could imagine one there.
The aloe plant gifted to me over 40 years ago.
Eventually my grandparents started to spend winters at a small house in California. One year, Ana brought back a small, unusual cutting of a plant for me. She told me it was an Aloe Vera and it would grow if I stuck it in some soil. All through my teenage years I kept it in my bedroom, on my table of plants and flowers. When I went to college, my parents took care of the indoor garden that I had. After college, I moved out west and somehow the aloe ended up in my parents tiny greenhouse. Two years later, when I moved back east, I found my aloe dying with one spot of green. I tended to the aloe and it revived. Four decades later, I still have the aloe plant my grandmother gave me; it has survived three near deaths, but it still stands strong.
As Ana grew older, she became allergic to something in soil. One by one she had to let her plants go.
Ana’s False Aurelia given to me when she had the let her plants go.
A hobby that was so essential to my grandmother had almost ended. When she moved from the mountain, to the little house where she spent her remaining years, she had very few plants. However, some plants are hardy and can be grown in water, so Ana sought out philodendron and heavenly bamboo; she had those growing in her sun room. Until she could no longer care for her plants, my grandmother was the intrinsic gardener.
Our cat nestled in My Covid Blanket. I started this Blanket during lockdown and finished in the fall of 2020
A blanket can be knitted, woven, quilted, crocheted or created in other ways. According to The Merriam-Webster dictionary, a blanket can have at least 7 different definitions, there are nouns, verbs and adjectives. In this story we need only one of those definitions, which is a noun, meaning “a large usually oblong piece of woven fabric…”
When our children were babies, we swaddled each child in a blanket for comfort and to help them sleep. As our children grew older and graduated from a crib to a bed , we tucked the blanket around them while we said goodnight. In my house blankets were used for play time as well. Sometimes, when our kids were toddlers, we would have them lie on a blanket, and my husband and I took the corners at each end. We would swing which ever child was in the blanket back and forth. They loved the feeling of swaying in the covering, always begging for more. Elaborate forts were made with bed sheets, but when the sheets ran out, a blanket was needed. Now days our blankets are primarily used to keep us warm, either in bed or while we sit in front of the TV.
I never gave the significance of a blanket much thought or the stories our blankets carry, until recently. Shortly after this past Christmas, a week after I launched this blog, I took two of my daughters to upstate NY. One of our days was spent in Corning, NY where we visited The Rockwell Museum; this is a museum featuring art about the American Experience. The piece that I related to the most was called Blanket Stories: Western Door, Salt Sacks, and Three Sisters, by an artist named Marie Watt; this piece of art is a blanket column.
Photo taken by Willa Vogel. Blanket Stories: Western Door, Salt Sacks, and Three Sisters, by Marie Watt. To read the stories go to: mariewattstudio.com/projects/western-door
Each blanket was contributed by families throughout Western New York State. On every blanket is a tag telling someone’s “blanket story”. I was so enthralled by this idea, that I reached out to the artist to get permission to connect her work to my blog. Last week I heard from Marie’s Studio project Manager, Stephanie Sun, giving me permission to connect the idea. I was also given consent to use the picture from Marie’s website on “Tell Me Your Story”.
When I think of the blankets that are important to me, I think of my children. Here are my blanket Stories:
My eldest child was born about six months after her father and I separated. She was not the best sleeper and I hoped to have a blanket which would help her sleep more easily, wherever she was. I found an old baby quilt somewhere, perhaps my parent’s house or our family cottage.
The Quilt
I thought I was told it had belonged to me. My mother does not remember who this quilt belonged to, so its origins remain a mystery. Eventually my ex-husband found a blanket or stuffed animal for our daughter to hold on to while she slep. when this happened, the quilt stayed at my house. For at least the first few years of her life, whatever place my first-born and I went, the quilt traveled with us.
My second born was a good sleeper. At some point early on, she was given a soft blue baby blanket.
Ruff and the Blue Blanket
The blanket went everywhere with us. Along with her little dog, Ruff, this blanket was her comfort. Both the blanket and dog were worn with years of love. When our life imploded a few years back, she put these two loved items in a garbage bag. My youngest child, went through the bag to see what treasures were being given away. After going through the bags, my third born handed me Ruff and the blue blanket saying, “these things should be kept.”
Now the quilt my eldest used, sits on a shelf in my closet. Across the way, Ruff and the blue blanket sit in a box on another shelf. I don’t know if any of these items will be loved again by someone, but I can’t bear to part with them.
I think of my youngest child as the blanket lover. As a very young child, whenever we went to a store that carried blankets she immediately wanted one; this hasn’t changed much. She loves the soft and plush blankets. Recently, she told me that she was freezing when she went to bed. One by one, she layered the blankets on top of her. By the time she was finished with the layers, she had 12 blankets on on top . Although I find it hard to believe she had this many blankets, it is possible.
Layers and Layers of Blankets (the second blanket from the top, on the right, is the heart blanket)
The blanket my youngest child says she loves the most, has hearts. The hearts on this blanket are solid red in the middle, with pink surrounding the red and then finally white encompassing the whole heart. The heart blanket is one she bought herself, many years ago; it is now somewhat thread bare with holes, but still used and loved.
Blankets may be significant because of a story or a history they have. Think about the blankets in your house. What do blankets represent to you? Are they used purely to keep you warm or are they used for something else? Is there a blanket that is special to you? Tell me your blanket story.
Sarah and I met after her college graduation as Jesuit Volunteers, and I think of her often. Here’s a story from our early days in Auburn, WA.
We arrived at Gooley House in Auburn, Washington in August 1990. A bunch of recent college grads from the East coast, we were eager to explore the great outdoors!
One Saturday, our housemates met up with about 5 or 6 volunteers from Seattle for our first outing to Mount Rainier. With some food, tents, sleeping bags, and rain jackets tossed in the back of our cars, off we went up highway 410 to Sunrise.
Unexpected snow
Three hours later on our hike up the ridge trail, clouds swept in over the mountaintop and snow began to fall!
Not a boy scout among us
The photo above shows a bunch of us dressed in shorts and hoodies, grinning and shivering as we learned our first lesson in mountaineering! Apparently, there was not a boy scout among us, so we headed back down the trail.
The next photo in my album shows dome tents pitched among the rhododendrons, just beyond the covered patio at the back of our house on G Street.
It was the first sleepover party of our JV year. It turns out, after all that driving, hiking, and socializing, I was just fine to sleep in my own bed.! #stilladayhiker2022
Tell Me Your Story 