Never Disappointed

Without a doubt she has been one of the funniest women that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.  She was my mother’s best friend for decades, and I can recall with affection the numerous crazy-funny moments that led to nothing but sheer laughter and joy while in the presence of the fabulous Mrs. K.

With wispy hair, a petite frame, and sparkling eyes, it has always been easy for me to see why my mother developed such a tight friendship with this charming, humorous, spontaneous, unique individual.

I began thinking about Mrs. K recently – oddly enough after hearing a very negative remark about humanity. Humanity in general, unfortunately, and all of humanity, whitewashed all together.  I don’t remember the exact phrasing (and am secretly glad that I don’t), but the main theory was those who put their faith in the goodness of others will always be disappointed.

Hmmm.

My mind drifted away from the negative humanity comments and back to the stories of two young girls growing up in a big city. Isabelle and Jean (my mother and Mrs. K respectively) – as regaled in story after story from my mom, finding their fair share of trouble, making their fair share of mistakes, having their fair share of close calls, and lamenting & repenting over their youthful sins.   And living for another day.

Though I enjoyed each and every tale told by my mom about her time with her best friend, and I equally enjoyed each adventure that I shared as a young daughter in the mix – having similar escapades with the two of them, it wasn’t the stories, the adventures and/or the escapades that sharpened my admiration for Mrs. K.

…………

I feel very differently about humanity.  I have rarely – if ever – been truly disappointed when putting my faith in the goodness of others.  In fact, I will step out on a limb here and state that I have never been disappointed.  Just never – not to the point that I remember it in any way.  It could be that I block such negativity out of my conscience thought. Perhaps I only see that which is good, great, and positive in the world.  And if I do, it seems to work for me, so I might continue that process.  Or it could be that I haven’t lived long enough to experience the flip side of humanity.  Perhaps the future will bring something completely different.  I hope not, but it could happen.  Or perhaps the world is truly a great place to live and those who see it differently need to come up to speed with reality.

I can say that I find it quite inappropriate to ever anticipate disappointment when placing faith in the goodness of others.  I believe that it is imperative for me to have faith, to trust others, and to expect the best.  It is important for me to be reliable, to be trustworthy, and to offer my best at all times.  From past practice,  I do know that I will receive both what I expect and what I give.

Which brings me back to Mrs. K.

Though my mother routinely detailed the major moments of fun and laughter that trailed through their time together as life long friends, she also quietly and assuredly discussed something more.  Mrs. K had a sibling who required more care and more effort than most family members.  Often times in their youth, this sibling would tag along, making a trio out of the duo.  According to my mother, never once did Mrs. K voice any complaints or in any way be critical of the situation that required one sibling to help with another.  Mrs. K was asked to step up to the plate and help, and she did.  Mrs. K’s sibling had faith in her sister, and wasn’t disappointed.  For life.

Mrs. K is the goodness that I see in humanity, over and over and over.  And over.

I plan on continuing to look for the best that humanity can bring and to drift off and think of people like Mrs. K when faced with those who are less complimentary about this world of ours.

The Earth is a Beautiful Place

The Earth is a Beautiful Place

You’re In Luck

“You’re in luck,” I said.  And with that, I turned to my second son and smiled.  “I don’t need my car tomorrow, and am glad that you can use it.”

It was a beautiful March evening; and, Timothy and I stood for just a moment in the driveway before he drove off.  As I handed him my keys, he thanked me and added just a little more. I knew the next phrase was coming well before he said it, but I looked forward to him saying it anyway.

“We’re both lucky, mom, aren’t we,” he said.  And I replied with a “Yes, son, we are.”

As he pulled away from my house with what he came to borrow, I began to consider all the times that he and I have uttered those phrases.  I tell him he is in luck and he tells me that we are both lucky – a mantra we have completed a thousand times a thousand.  But this time, I think I meant it a little more.  And I was hoping that he equally heard my words and delivered his with more meaning.

For during the early part of my day, I wasn’t feeling the luck in any way.

Though my daily work doesn’t bring me into direct, one on one contact with students often, this semester, a series of unusual events had caused me to work with three very different people for three very different reasons.  Each of these three students had challenges throughout their lives that I nor my children had ever experienced or imagined:  parents who at best could have been described as absent –  a lack of funding not only for school, but for basic needs like food and shelter – no reliable means of transportation – no steady employment of any kind – non-supportive family and friends – and in general, a day-to-day existence that was more difficult than ever delightful at every turn.

Lately, I had spent a great deal of time wondering about the what-ifs for these three young students.  What if just one thing was different in any one of their lives? Just one thing? What if one of their parents put effort into raising them?  Just one? Just a little? What type of difference would that have made?  What if each one of the students could say that they had never gone hungry – not for one day?  That they never thought about how they were going to secure their next meal? Wow.  What type of difference would that have made?  Or what if they never once had to worry about transportation to and from college, to and from work, to and from anywhere? What type of difference would that have made? If they had just had a little luck, in any direction, for any reason, at any time, what type of difference would it have made for any or all of them?

My work is not to sit behind a desk and wonder all day long.  But, there are days that wondering is the best that I can do.

For although I tried my hardest with each student and they tried their hardest, neither my effort nor their efforts has been able to provide them with enough success to eliminate all of their problems and challenges.  In fact, we hardly made a dent.  The road in front of each of them still seems long and bumpy with admittedly a tiny glimmer of light at the end  – but I wouldn’t call it a streaming beacon at this point.

Through my contact with these three individuals, I swiftly came to realize that all they really need is a little luck.  Somewhere in their frantic worlds, they need to come across a road block and suddenly be handed just a bit of luck and . . . voilà . . . the challenge is averted, the problem is eliminated, the story has a happy ending.  In fact, all anyone really needs is just a little luck.  Trouble is . . . getting to the point that such luck appears is often a journey of a million miles.

That’s why it is so important to recognize and realize when luck occurs. For when it does occur, we have normally waited a long time, planned a great deal, put in time and effort, tinkered around, and worked hard to reach such opportunity.  Benjamin Franklin said it well defining “diligence as the mother of good luck”.  Likewise, Tony Robbins calls luck “the meeting of preparation with opportunity”. Neither diligence nor preparation has a short time frame.  Both take awhile, a long while. Likewise, luck takes awhile, even for the luckiest of folks.  In considering how luck works,  I sincerely hope that the three students I have personally met during spring 2014 are in it for the long haul and are willing to persevere, waiting for their lucky moment.

Connecting all the dots in some fashion, I am grateful for the conversation between my son and me on that beautiful Wednesday evening.   He and I – in less than 100 words – acknowledged that luck had been a part of our lives and that we were and should be thankful for it and for each other.  Such a brief conversation between two people, but an important one – a conversation that gives me plenty to wonder about. A conversation that I am hoping that we will continue to utter and build on for years to come.

 

A flower seen on that Wednesday evening. Lucky me.

A flower seen on that Wednesday evening. Lucky me.

 

 

 

 

A Man of Few Words

Recently, my little brother, Rich, and I entered into an interesting partnership.  And during the time we were considering whether to do so, both Rich and I consulted with our father. And in comparing notes, my brother and I found that we were both asked the same questions:

“Do you trust him?” my father asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes,” I replied again.

“Then do it,” he said, “Everything else will work out fine.”

In this conversation, my dad was brief and to the point. If the time elapsed was more than one minute, I will be shocked.  My pop only had two questions – one about trust and the other about love.  Never having been a man of many words and certainly never having been a touchy-feeling type guy, he assumed that the two question eight-word piece of advice was enough and it would be all that I would need.  And odd as it may sound, it was.

But it was only odd to me. Clearly, it was not odd to him.  For, as I sat next to my dad listening to those two questions and watching him deliver that very brief message, it became strangely clear that this wasn’t the only time that he had used this advice.

Throughout the next several weeks, as my brother and I cinched our partnership (keeping our dad apprised of the smaller subsequent decisions and choices we were making), my dad began opening up about the times that those two poignant questions guided him.

Should he marry my mother – the love of his life – and the love of ours? Yes.  Should he take a risk and move his family to a great new frontier called Florissant? Yes.  Should he listen to the advice from his father and take a job with a company formerly called Union Electric – now Ameren UE?  Yes.  Should he, himself, enter into all types of adventures and mis-adventures with his own brother, Bud – his dearest and lifelong best friend? Yes.

With love in his back pocket and trust at his side, he had no fear of his decisions.  He just didn’t. He still doesn’t. The outcome of his decisions may not always have been as planned, may not always have been perfect, and may have led down new and unexpected paths, but with love and trust, he always felt that his decisions were . . . correct . . . right . . . just.  Where some may have fear, he had confidence.  And at the moment he was asking me his two greatest questions, he wanted me to be confident, to have no fear.

When my father asked me if I trusted my brother, he made the term . . . the idea . . . seem so simple. He didn’t want frivolous conversation from me.  He didn’t want a lengthy discussion on trust, the origins of trust, and the positive benefits of trust.  He wasn’t planning on spending hours and days introducing the concept of trust and pondering its definition with me.  He wanted me to answer his question with a brief but confident yes or no.  He really didn’t want me to discuss the degree to which I trusted my brother or any reasons why I should or should not trust him or the dangers of doing so.  In fact, I think he was hoping that I wouldn’t speak, rather simply move my head yes or no – preferably yes, which I did.

When he asked me if I loved my baby brother, the same premise applied.  Yes or no.  Did I love him?  My pop didn’t want to know the details that could have been attached to that question.  He didn’t want to know any challenges surrounding it.  In fact, I think that had I begun some type of discussion when my pop asked that question, he may have given me the awe-inspiring, dad-blaster ‘no time for talking’ look – the look that fathers use to pretty much stop space and time – in order to refocus me.  He just wanted me to give him that one word answer, again with confidence – which was yes.

In less than one minute, with eight words in two questions, my pop did it again.  It was masterful advice in the blink of an eye.  He didn’t say it this way, but I definitely heard: Trust those you love . . . and love those you trust . . . everything beyond will fall in place.

His confidence in knowing that if I had trust and if I had love, then I should have no fear was moving.  And my dad has been right.  My brother and I are having the time of our lives – and couldn’t be happier with our decision.

I know that I, like my father, will keep those two questions handy.  And as I face complicated, challenging decisions in the future, I know that – like him – I will hope that those eight words give me the same type of guidance that they have done for my dad.

But I do have to chuckle.How in the world am I ever going to meet that standard!  Heck, 1000 words isn’t always enough for me to convey whatever it is that I want to convey. Well . . . at least I have a target!

Dad

Dad

Turn, Turn, Turn

“To everything . . . turn, turn, turn.  There is a season . . . turn, turn, turn.  And a time for every purpose, under Heaven. A time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant, a time to reap, a time to kill, a time to heal, a time to laugh, a time to weep . . .”  The Byrds, 1965.

At the time, it didn’t seem that small.  It just didn’t.  But, I suppose it was. Throughout the normal year, there were eight of us – six children (four boys, two girls) and our parents.  In the summer, however, the number increased.  Our grandmother arrived in May for a two month visit, and our cousin joined us in June for the summer.  And at least once each day – and sometimes two – the entire group would gather around the  wooden kitchen table  – oblong in shape with two benches and two end-chairs  – to eat.  With five to a side and my grandmother and father at the ends, it must have been elbow to elbow.  It just didn’t seem so at the time.

When it started, the home was 888 square feet – not including an unfinished full basement and a backyard. It had three bedrooms, one bathroom, and what would now be called an “eat-in” kitchen.  As I entered my teenage life, my folks expanded the house, tearing down the small bedroom wall to create a living-room/dining room combo, and adding a family room and a larger bedroom. Finally, well after I had moved out, they added a deck which spanned the entire length of the rear of the house.  Again, at the time, none of it seemed small.

There was a need for creativity, however, with only one bathroom and a minimum of eight residents.  On school mornings, showers started early and lasted a few minutes or less if possible.  The house had two sinks and it wasn’t beyond anyone to use the one in the kitchen to brush teeth or wash hair.  As the family aged, my father kindly set up a make-shift shower in the basement – weaving a hose through the ceiling joists, centering it over the floor drain, and encircling it with a shower curtain for as much privacy as a shower in the middle of an open basement could have.   It seemed luxurious and we felt lucky to have two showers.

Throughout the ensuring years, my parents added a large round, above-ground pool in the backyard – right next to the two story tree house, built by my brothers, and eventually secured for safety by my dad.  We had a one car garage which was fine during the time that we only owned one car.  As we learned to drive and bought more cars, we simply parked them in the street as best we could. Everything seemed to fit – nothing seemed too small.

In fact, our small house worked so well that on Christmas in 1976, my parents invited my aunt, uncle, and their four children to stay with us for the holidays. Total home population was fourteen residents, fifteen when my grandma arrived, with my parents welcoming many others on a daily basis to visit with our visitors.  For two weeks, we ate in shifts, showered on a schedule, slept wherever floorspace permitted, and, in general, made concessions on almost everything and anything related to space.  With a Christmas tree and presents filling up an already full family room, the space should have felt tight and cramped.  But again, it did not.

It never did.

Not too long ago, my husband, my son, and I went to that family home to stay overnight.  There were only three of us in the house at the time – as my father was staying at my brother’s house for the evening, and my mother had passed away a dozen years prior.   As we sat at the kitchen table, I thought back to the times when there would be a minimum of an additional five to seven individuals eating dinner in the same space.  Toe to toe, shoulder to shoulder, we would eat, talk, laugh, fight and cry with each other, meal after meal after meal after meal.

Something in the world has changed, however, because looking at that kitchen today with a yardstick and a ruler, it definitely would be considered small. It just would be. In fact, thinking back, there were times when rather than navigating through those sitting at the table,  the best way to walk through the kitchen was to exit out the back door, walk around and enter the front door.

The kitchen may have been small.  The bathroom may have been small.  In fact, the whole house may have been small;  but, what wasn’t small was the life of the folks living in that home.  From that small house, we learned a lot.

We learned to share – everything – closets, clothes, towels, bedrooms, shower space, radios, cars, food – nothing was sacred. In small spaces, individual ownership of things is tough – making sharing a natural, seamless, normal function. I look back on it and recognize that it was a blessing to learn the concept of sharing so prominently and passionately.

We also learned to be flexible.  People – cousins, grandparents, friends – moved in and out of the house all the time. In fact, the house seemed empty without someone staying with the eight of us.  We just shifted, moved, and/or switched places to meet the current needs without fanfare or concern.  A sleeping bag here – a blanket there – add a couple of pillows – and voila – we found the space.  With such flexibility, my parents reaffirmed the idea that it was our family that was blessed – to have so many folks who wanted to live with us.  We were the fortunate ones.  We were the lucky ones.

We learned that there was a time for everything. Everything was scheduled to make sure that life in the house ran like clockwork. Dinner time – 5:00pm.  Shower time – scheduled each morning.  Bedtime – on the half hour after 7:00pm depending on age.  Everything had its own moment, and it was best to capitalize on those moments.

Finally, as I march deeper and deeper into the 21st century, I only hope that I have learned to share well, to be flexible enough, and to know that “to everything there is a time and a purpose, under Heaven.”

At the edge of the world - a big and beautiful place.

At the edge of the world – a big and beautiful place.

A Few Words / Lots of Photos

I have been blogging for a little more than a year – and usually I find a photo that, for me, generates 1000 words.  I am stepping outside of my box a little. Following are five videos – of varying length – with lots of photos, a little music, and very few words. Not sure why I have changed the format for this post, but I hope –  for those visiting my blog –  that one photo, one minute, one moment generates many, many thoughts, ideas, words. (Please note:  This attempt is my first in terms of using video.  All suggestions would be welcome!)

The Music . . .

Barry, John. (1986). Out of Africa: Soundtrack from the Motion Picture. N.L.: Geffen Records.

Carpenter, Richard. (2004). Karen’s Theme. On Carpenters Gold 35th Anniversary Edition. N.L.: A & M Records

The Cranberries. (1998). Dreams. On You’ve Got Mail (Music from the Motion Picture). N.L.: Atlantic Recording Corporation.

Durante, Jimmy.  (1998) You Made Me Love You. On You’ve Got Mail (Music from the Motion Picture). N.L.: Atlantic Recording Corporation.

The Philadelphia Orchestra & Normady, E. (2001). Clare de lune. On Ocean’s Eleven (Music from the Motion Picture).  N.L.: Warner Bros. Records Inc.

The Comeback Moment

I caught his eyes, and I knew it was the moment. My young, eighteen year old cousin was looking straight at me with that smile.  It was the moment we all waited for . . . the moment of excitement . . . the most anticipated moment . . . the defining moment.  He said absolutely nothing to me and I nothing to him.  But, we both grinned and we knew it.  And we weren’t the only ones who recognized it.

My sister was some twenty feet behind me laughing as she reached out for our tiny ten-year old niece who had just swallowed a bit of salt water, but was none-the-less smiling and laughing, too. My spouse, also laughing,  had tumbled back further towards shore and was intent on returning, pausing just long enough to squeeze water out of his faded yellow swim shirt and to meet up with a brother-in-law who likewise was making his way back to the group.

The teenage girls – six of them who were all nearly the same age, (old enough to be on their own, but young enough to need some watchful eyes) – were already waiting for the next round, as were the college kids – the bold, the crazy, the unabashed, the fearless – who had moved the center of the group several feet farther out into the ocean than the original position.

In all, there were nearly thirty of us, marching out from the inch deep shoreline to chin high waters in the Atlantic.  And with ocean waves crashing, we – aunts, uncles, parents, brothers, sisters, children, cousins, grandparents, and friends – stayed together.  The day was bright and the water was warm. The waves were all too often over our heads, yet for some reason their force was unusually weak, with just enough danger to make it seem dangerous mixed in with just enough safety for those of us old enough to be concerned to not be concerned.

Wave after wave, we would watch and wait for the perfect ride, the perfect catch. The waves would roll by and each of us would do our body surfing best, some with more success than others, to manage them with fun. It wasn’t the skill of the sport or the challenge of the water that interested us.  The lure was, and always has been, something else.

Vacation in my world has always meant traveling to the beach to meet up with a large assortment of family members.  For the past 45+ years, during the third week in July, we haul beach chairs, tents, umbrellas, buckets, shovels, nets, towels, cameras, toys, coolers, books, food, and now phones to the ocean shore.   Arriving mid-morning and leaving mid-evening, we pack, unpack, and eventually repack, learning to take a little less stuff and a little more food to the beach with each passing day.  As I watch my children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews carry my belongings to the beach, I fondly recall the times I helped my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles carry theirs.

Throughout these 45+ years, we have developed our fair share of family vacation traditions: take pictures Friday night, share homemade salsa, play miniature golf Thursday, late lunches and dominoes, ring the bell, get an ice cream, church on Sunday,  beach bocce winner-take-all, and evenings poolside.  Are they special, extraordinary, unique, exceptional traditions?  Hardly.  They are simple, average, common, uncomplicated, ordinary ones – with everyone included in everything and no official planning for anything.

These traditions have created a sense of ease to a vacation that could be considered a little arduous as relatives are required to pack up significant belongings and travel hundreds of miles in over-stuffed vehicles just to be together for seven straight days.  And vacations, regardless of type, time, or location, can be costly.  Gas tanks, plane rides, car rentals, maps, fun food, sunscreen, laundromats, movie tickets, and finally, the purchasing of all necessities sadly forgotten at home means vacations have a price.  But, we return every year – same time, same place – to once again carry our stuff to the sandy ocean shore.

In all honesty, over those past 45+ years, we have changed locations . . . albeit once.  And why we moved from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic is a mystery to most of us, but somewhere in the 80s, we shifted east. It is clear, however, that those before me sought a quiet, remote, uncluttered, and unpopulated spot with little more to do than link lives with those in attendance.  No fast food, go-carts, shopping malls, piers, boardwalks, high rises, tourist attractions, beach bars, jet skis, surf shops, or restaurant chains.  Just a roof over our heads with sand, water, family and friends. 

As I caught my cousin’s eyes, I knew it was the moment.  I could see it.  To my right, a cousin of my cousin had locked arms with my niece.  From the shore, my brother and my aunt were snapping photo after photo. My spouse ended up circled by the six teenage girls who were holding onto the lone surf board owned and operated by another young cousin. To my left, I saw a cousin’s friend raising a lost, then found baseball cap that had left the drenched head of another relative.   Two others were holding the hands of that tiny, young ten-year old for safekeeping. Everyone was smiling.  Everyone was laughing.   

In that moment, I saw a family – 30+ strong  – dancing in the waves . . . together . . . in sync . . .with no thoughts and no cares in the world.  And I knew that this moment was the comeback moment, the one that will bring us back . . . together . . . again . . . next year.

.

                         Vacationing Together in the Summer on the Atlantic

In the Days of the Giants

I can close my eyes, right now, and see her – a petite woman, no more than five feet  – (and that is giving her a couple inches) –  wearing a long handmade mini-print belted dress followed by those crazy-heavy black front tie granny shoes, her round rimmed glasses tipped on her nose, a Kleenex stuffed slightly up her sleeve, and a wrinkled white apron tied promptly around her waist at all times. In her side pocket, she carried hard candy, the key to her house, and at all times a worn silver rosary.  She spoke English, most of the time, but would fall to German when necessary.   She wasn’t quick to smile, but definitely was hard to anger.  Her grey hair was always cropped neatly, and the only piece of jewelry she sported was a simple gold wedding band.  She was a woman of great faith, hard work, humble means, and sensible actions.

Like all grandmothers, she had habits and quirks that fascinated me.  She owned a parakeet named Perky; and, if she travelled, Perky travelled with her.   She hid money – cash – throughout her modest home . . . ten-dollar bills in the hems of the curtains, a handful of coins in her button jar, enough money for a house payment behind the round picture of the Blessed Mary,  frozen money in the not-so-hidden ice-cube trays in the back of the freezer, a jar of dollars in the tree stump.  Plus, she only and always wore dresses.  Pants were just a no-no.  And every night she drank a short glass of whiskey, followed by praying the rosary, in Latin.

She loved me and I knew it, but not because she told me.

I stayed summers with her and she made me a pie a day . . . any kind, all I had to do was ask – chocolate, peanut butter, rhubarb, marshmallow, peach, raisin, ice cream, potato – everyday a new pie. She taught me how to make bread.  I always failed, but she always ate it.  We played euchre together each and every evening, keeping a running tab on who was winning and who was losing – for years.  She cried with me when I was sad, and laughed with me when I was happy.  Coddling wasn’t exactly in her vocabulary, but raking a yard, hanging laundry, or burning the trash pile with her didn’t seem like work.  It was purposeful fun . . . time well spent.

Her name was Pauline, but her family called her Polly.  She, herself, had countless sisters and several brothers, all living in a little town in Illinois.  Her own three children, two girls and one boy, were spread across the United States with my family being the closest in proximity to her at all times.  To me, she was the grandmother of all grandmothers – the perfect multi-generational companion for me and my brothers and sister.

She has been gone from this earth for many years now, and I used to wonder why I thought about her as often as I do.  It took me awhile, but it finally came to me.  In fact, I realize now that it really isn’t that hard to understand.  It really isn’t.    Simply put, Polly was a giant, living in the days of the giants.  And even though I wasn’t a quick learner, she was great at modeling.  Eventually she knew that I knew what she wanted me to know.  It just took awhile.

From her, I know that it isn’t money that makes people happy.  She didn’t have much if any, and was happy just to be fishing on a Friday night with me and half of her family at the local riverside – sometimes catching nothing, but always having fun.

From her, I know that faith can bring comfort.  I wouldn’t describe her as a god-fearing woman, but I would say that she was deeply religious.  She pondered through all of her challenges with prayer, (usually in another language), and somehow she seemed to navigate of all her troubles.

From her, I know that quiet is just as good as noisy.  One thousand words was a life time of conversation for her. I can still hear her say, “Too much talk, too little work.”  She, herself, didn’t have to communicate via speech, a talent that still impresses me. I knew what she wanted to tell me without her ever having to speak a word.

From her, I know the definition of giving.  I watched a woman whose belongings could literally fit into two suitcases, give anything she owned to anyone who asked.  That’s why her belongings fit into two suitcases.

From her, I know how to manage money.  It is simply a matter of saving it – in cans, jars, boxes, purses, curtains, trays, trees, sleeves, and banks.  She never bought something she didn’t need, and never really seemed to need anything.  But if she did, she dug up the can and paid for it in cash.  Her joy came not from buying whatever she needed, but from the journey that it took her to get to the point of purchase.

From her, I know how to be thrifty.  Can it if you can.  Freeze the rest.  Holes can be darned.  Dresses and shoes can be remade and salvaged with a little thread, leather and ingenuity.  Water comes out of a tap, walking is cheaper than driving, and one hundred found pennies can buy a dollar’s worth of anything.  There was never a glass jar that saw the bottom of the trash can in her house.  Who needs Tupperware when a used Vlasic pickle jar was available?

And from her, I know about joy.  She characterized her life, as hard as it might have been – as a young teen from a dirt-poor immigrant farm family, living through World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II –   as joyful.  All stories that I heard ended with some type of quote that was meant to direct me to always see the best in the world because she did.

Well, Polly, all I can say is lessons learned.

Pauline Washford

Grandma Polly 1957