Where Else Would She Be?

You can shed a tear that she’s gone
Or you can smile because she lived.
You can close your eyes and pray she’ll come back
Or you can open your eyes and see all she’s left.
Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her
Or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can remember only that she is gone
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
Or you can do what she’d want; smile, open your eyes, love...and go on.



Mom and Katy Jo-Thanksgiving Past


Thanksgiving belonged to my mom.  She loved everything about this holiday; a chance to express gratitude and to gather together with family.  Following her lead, we dressed up for Thanksgiving; it was (and still is) like dinner with the Ewings.

It never mattered that she wasn't playing host at her home. She was the honorary hostess, showing up wherever the Shumway clan was gathering with a car trunk filled with Bonnie Rae specialties.

Mom knew how to make everything more beautiful and would often bring a special tablecloth or a fancy serving dish, pitcher or platter to add elegance to the event. 

Her perfected-over-time sweet potatoes were a standing request, and she would bring pies, salads, and extra dishes to add to the bounty.  Food was love to her, and it was another way of saying what was in her heart.

Mom strived to create family traditions.  She often gathered us together to take turns sharing our reflections on the past year and what we were most thankful for.

During family gatherings, Mom was always my go-to person for conversation and reassurance. She was a skilled conversationalist and I knew when I sat down to talk with her that it would be a good time. She made me feel special and important...she could do that with everyone.

I am hosting Thanksgiving at my house this year.  My Dad called me yesterday to tell me how much he is looking forward to us all being together.  He thanked me several times. It will be our family's third without Mom.  I miss her more than usual, and long for her to once again show up in my driveway, frazzled and beautiful. 

My oldest, Joni Rose is making Mom's sweet potatoes.  My sisters and daughters are pitching in to provide the other trimmings for our turkey/ham feast.  It will be an Open House of sorts, with family comings and goings throughout the day and into the evening. 

I am hoping that there will be a few moments tomorrow when we are ALL together.  As Mom would say, "the stars will align" and for just a short time, the people that loved and lost her will share the same room.  By gathering in the unique way that only my family knows and has come to cherish, we are inviting her spirit to join us. 

I can't imagine she would be anywhere else...

Idaho Ghosts

Our lives are shaped as much by those who leave us 
as they are by those who stay.  
Loss is our legacy. 
Insight is our gift.
Memory is our guide.
     -Emmy Belding, Grieving Gracefully

The House Where Dad was Born-February 19, 1932

My grandmother "Muzzie" used to tell my father that he was born "on the banks of Spring Creek on a cold February day”. He was actually born in the house that sits on a hill overlooking the creek. Eighty years since my dad’s difficult debut, he sits with me in my car on the first stop of our sentimental journey. I step out into the cool October air to take a few pictures.

With Dad as my guide, I want to see the places that my grandmother’s family called home. This is what I know about them: 

• My great-grandparents, Leslie and Martha Bowcut Wickham had a farm outside of town. 
• They had six sons and two daughters (The oldest son died as an infant)
• Son Peter ran a sawmill. 
• Son Walt had a big potbelly and drank on his porch. 
• Leslie built Martha a home “in town” after her years of working the farm with little help from her sons.  Perhaps he was trying to atone for the time he was away on a Mormon mission. 
• Muzzie was born the year after he came home.

I believe seeing their homes and the places they lived and worked will help me understand more about a virtually invisible side of my family.  I am hoping it spurs my Dad's memories as well. 

I never met any of the brothers; just Muzzie's sister, Freda.  Most of them were alive when I was in high school. Why was I never introduced to these people? 

My Aunt Judy remembers that as a child, she was not allowed to associate with her Wickham uncles or their families. It appears to be another sad example of misplaced judgment, keeping people divided on issues that in the end, don’t matter one bit.

As we drive through Franklin and out to the farm, my grandmother's energy fills the air around us and I listen with reverence while other Wickham spirits join her to tell their stories through the quiet, comforting voice of my father.

The Wickham Farm

As a child, I remember seeing the Wickham farm from the main road.  It is just two or three miles out of town, with a final turn down what was once a long tree-lined lane. Today the trees are gone, and the farmhouse has been replaced by a modern brick rambler with a white heavy door.  Dad stands on the porch while I knock. We want to introduce ourselves to anyone who answers and ask for permission to look around. No one is home. 

Grandpa Wickham built this garage

The original garage that Grandpa Wickham built is still standing. An old shed and this one-car structure are all that remains of the past. Dad wanders into the back yard and the landscape suddenly drops off into a beautiful valley. A river ambles through the trees. Dad tells me that he remembers playing here as a child, and I step away to let him relish his memories.

Muzzie's Riverbottom

 
  Johnny Jump-Ups

When Muzzie wrote her memoirs, she reminisced about “skipping through the johnny jump-ups”, a small flower that grows wild in the fields and along the roadside. This has become somewhat of a joke in our family; an example of hyperbole and of viewing the past through rose-colored glasses. 

But as I stand there looking over this pristine valley with my Dad, I understand what a magical place the river bottoms must have been for her as a young girl; a hidden playground, complete with a bridge her father built especially for her to  cross the stream.  It won't be so easy for me to make light of that memory anymore.  

I start to tell Dad this and see he has tears in his eyes.


The Tiny Blue House

Folklore from my childhood whispered that some of Muzzie’s brothers were drunks.  I had heard the names Walt and Joe, but especially sad was the youngest, Kelly (real name-Ross).  Until I saw this two-room house, I didn't know the whole story. We park across the street while Dad remembers:


So small

Coming here with his mother, he always had to wait in the car. Muzzie went into the house alone and was gone for what seemed like a long time. When she came out to the car, she would often be crying.  She asked her children to keep these visits a secret from their father.

 
 Now I know that Kelly’s young wife Alice died only two years after they married and as a new mother, less than one year after giving birth to their son Leslie.  She was 19. Tragically, Leslie was killed in a jeep rollover accident months before he turned 22.

I suspect Kelly found numb comfort from his loss in the bottle and I feel a compassion for him that stays with me long after I return home.  I ache for my grandmother, who was forced to see her brothers mostly in secret to avoid the harsh judgment of others.       

Dad and I end our journey at the Franklin City Cemetery.  

My mother is buried here, not far from Leslie, Martha, Peter, Muzzie, my grandfather, Kelly and Alice. 

I realize once again that Mom isn't here; not really.  They are all in the wind now, perhaps summoned from eternity to hover nearby when we say their names, remember their faces or tell their stories.    

In the "I can't believe I didn't do this" category, I did NOT take a picture of my Dad during our sojourn. His white hair was longer than usual (a haircut seemed unimportant in light of our mission) and his face often beamed with the glory of remembrance. 

I don't have his picture, but I won't forget how beautiful he looked that day. Not for the rest of my life.           

Letter to Beau

Beau,

You might not remember our first meeting.  Wow…he is big! That is what I thought the first time you appeared from around the corner of my house.  You and Jackie were car-shopping (I think) and she had apparently dragged you along. You were wearing long shorts and I noticed a large Celtic tattoo on your calf.  You were polite but didn’t smile…not once. 

Joni Rose was rather oblivious that day. Or maybe that is just what I thought.  She was reeling from her recent break-up with the abusive Frenchman, so I was surprised when a few months later, I discovered that a spark had ignited between her and the Hulk with Tattoo.  But something was happening; and even though I was absorbed by a new romance of my own, I could see it all over her face.

In the nine years since you asked my permission to marry Joni Rose; I have come to love the gem of a man underneath that first impression.  You are handsome and extremely intelligent.  But you are also all the other things mothers want their daughters to marry; responsible, ambitious, principled, and tender-hearted.  I believe you will love Joni Rose for this lifetime and beyond.  I know you healed her heart and made her shine again.

The first time you met our extended family, Joni told me you couldn’t believe that people really talked and interacted that much. Even so, you have carved your own place among us and have discovered how to flourish around gregarious men and opinionated women.

I admire your rebel spirit and patriot’s passion.  Being around you makes me feel safe, and I have no doubt you would give your life without hesitation for your principles and the people you love

But you and I are connected by something more now.  We are grieving.  I might be further in the journey than you, but I recognize the emptiness and pain in your eyes.  Living with the loneliness of life without my Mom, I have been humbled to watch the staggering losses you have experienced in such a short time.

Uncle Barry, Grandpa Bill, Uncle Kent and now perhaps the hardest of all; Grandpa Moore.. in death, they have taken with them pieces of your childhood, your life experiences, and countless shared, now sacred memories. It feels like part of you is gone too, doesn’t it?  I have listened to the way you talk about each of them. They are your heroes; diverse and unique … strong, driven, masculine, courageous, protective, tender, kind men. They were keepers of your innocence and the architects of your spirit.

Protective as you are, I know you worry for those left behind.  You helplessly watch your Dad grapple with losing his band of brothers while shouldering the burdens of the last living son. Like you, my heart aches for Grandma Joyce, widowed just in time to bury her youngest child.  And Grandma Afton, losing her sweetheart after years of their struggle to hang on to independence and to each other…a poignant love story I hope you will cherish.

I don’t understand why certain people leave us so soon…I am still struggling with why they leave us at all!  Even when our sick and infirm are released from pain and suffering, we ache in places we never imagined would hurt so much…and for so long.  I can tell you it will get a more bearable with time, but as you know so well already, it will never get easier to lose people we love.

I am so sorry this has happened to you so young.

How lucky we are to know you.  This family stands with you and will be there for all that is yet to come.  I am sorry for your loss. But because of you, we know more about these men who shaped your journey. We see each of them in you.

  

Know they are proud.

Crossing Over

There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all.

        - from In My Life by Paul McCartney and John Lennon

Back in March, I wrote about the pilgrimage Ron and I made to one of the iconic landmarks of our generation.  While in London for two days, we had frankly struggled to find the magic; until we walked from the St. John's tube stop into a quiet British neighborhood.  There we would join fans of all ages at the "zebra crossing" on Abbey Road.  

As children of the 60's, we both grew up listening to the musical revolution called The Beatles.  We saw their first appearance on American television while glued to The Ed Sullivan show.  I never screamed like the thousands of hysterical (stupid) girls whenever they came into view but I had a little crush on Paul (later it would be John). 

Construction did not deter the mission of those who waited with us that day.  We took turns scrambling into the road between traffic lights to pay homage by imitating our musical heroes. 

Knowing that I was walking in the footsteps of the Fab Four seemed remarkable to my farm girl heart.  John, Paul, George and Ringo were young and beautiful in the summer of 1969. So were we.  It made me melancholy for my childhood, my younger sister and my Mom....  

I believe in yesterday.

Ron and I didn't exchange many words. We couldn't have spoken them anyway.  Surprised by our emotions, we stood outside the gate at Abbey Studio and Ron scrawled our message on the wall. A cute young couple offered to take our picture.  We returned the favor.  

Ron submitted pictures of our crossing to the website below and they were recently posted .  You can visit the site at:

www.AbbeyRoadCrossing.com
(Click on September 2012)

Or you can see them here:

"Hi There. We are Ron and Angie King from Salt Lake City, Utah. We are happy to share our pilgrimage to the Abbey Road crossing. Despite the fact the road was torn up due to the replacement of the ancient Victorian water line, we acted like little kids (we are both in our fifties) at the opportunity to make this crossing. We were only in London for one day and this was the single place on our absolutely can't miss list. We can now cross this event off our bucket list. The picture above is Angie on the crossing................

..................then the two of us, Ron and Angie, in front of Abbey Road Studios......................

.......................the message we left on the studio wall...................

.......................and finally me, Ron, on the crossing. Thank you for the opportunity to share our memorable day. Ron and Angie King"

Out Here On My Own

It is surprising to what lengths I will go to keep from breaking down. For so many days in a row, I keep my tears and loneliness buried, pushed under, wearing my mask of happiness while staying busy (running).

  

There are probably many who think my mother’s death is now ancient history. She is gone, grieving has been sufficiently attended to, let’s move the hell on.  Just like a failed love affair, people can only be supportive for so long before they start to think you have perhaps “gone round the bend” with your over-wrought days of pain.

But here is my truth:

  

• I lost my dearest friend in the whole world. Not in the Facebook friend way (God, no) but in the genuine places of my heart that only a few people will ever know. It is pretty empty. 

• As an oldest daughter, Mom was my mentor to aging. She was forging the dark, wooded path through the slithey unknown and I developed a new compassion watching her vanity and lifelong quest for the holy grail of youth give way to something deeper.

• She was the keeper of my secrets. Women have as many of them as men think they do; those sacred things they only say out loud to other women. Mine were safe with Mom. I could go to her with my fear, uncertainty, anger, indignation and desperation to say whatever came out (minus the swear words, of course) but this was a small price to pay for her listening ear and the wisdom of her heart.

I can’t tell my daughters these secrets. They are only for someone who has seen what the future looks like and can reassure me that I can make it; because they already have.

• She was my advocate; always on my side, just the way you dream someone who loves you will be. She was protective and wanted to “choke stiff” anyone who hurt me. She could be wickedly sarcastic and laughing at the absurdity of my situations meant victory…oh how we laughed!

• She was my Xavier; and I was a proud graduate of her School for Gifted Youngsters. I had superpowers when she was around. I was funnier, smarter, more intuitive and happier. Grief has robbed me of them still…I get glimmers, but they fritz out in an instant.

Today is the 2 ½ year anniversary of her death. Saturday will be the 3rd anniversary of the surgery that doomed her and all of us to what is our now.

Yesterday, I melted down. I let the loss of her in... to overwhelm me again. I am vulnerable, scared, uncertain and so very lonely.  I keep waiting for my husband, my aunt, my sisters or SOMEONE to channel all the attributes of my mother, even while I know it is absurd…and impossible.

It is time to talk to someone. A professional.

I can say whatever I want, and maybe even WITH the swearing.

I will let you how it goes…

Deathbed Promises

Margaret Josephine with children: John Daniel, Jessie Adeline and Robert Franklin (sitting)

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep.

      -Robert Frost

Until now, my maternal great-grandmother has only been remembered for the violent, horrific way she died.  In my quest to learn and share the stories of my family, I have discovered that it is how she lived that should be passed on as well.

She made two deathbed promises to her husband that changed her life.  But they also altered the destiny of her descendants.  It is this story that I want my brother, sisters and our children to know.

Margaret Josephine Phelps was an Alabama girl, born the second of 10 children.  Her father, Daniel served as a Sergeant in the Tennessee Regiment of the Confederate Army.  He was granted land by the government as a soldier-survivor of the Civil War.  Just like me and my siblings, Margaret grew up on a farm.

At age 20, Margaret met and fell deeply in love with Franklin Wakefield Peacock, 14 years her senior.  Franklin had been raised on a large plantation and loved working the land.  Like Margaret, his father had also served in the Confederate Army during the Civil War. 

Franklin had been alone for almost 12 years, since the death of his first wife and baby during childbirth. He had  moved to Covington County to homestead 160 acres of woodland.  He became acquainted with Margaret’s parents and was soon introduced to their beautiful oldest daughter.

Franklin and Margaret were married on Christmas Day in 1890 at her parent’s home. It was said to be quite the soiree.  For the next few years, the two of them worked their land together. Three children joined their family;  their oldest son, John Daniel is my grandfather, Jessie Adeline and Robert Franklin.

It was late July 1898 when tragically, Margaret would lose her love.  She was forced to confront the reality that she was going to be left alone to raise three small children (7, 6 and 2) and run a large and demanding farm. Franklin’s health had been declining and now he was suffering. There was no real treatment (and certainly no cure) for Bright’s Disease, a term used then for kidney failure. 

In some of their last precious moments together, Margaret promised Franklin that she would NEVER remarry.   
     

Margaret would have several other suitors and opportunities to remarry; to make her life and the lives of her children easier. Even with the help of her family, she struggled. (My grandfather, John was forced to quit school after eighth grade to work full-time).


My mother wrote that the combination of hard-work, worry, stress and grief changed Margaret’s appearance and aged her prematurely.  My grandfather remembered many nights when his mother would disappear to walk the fields crying for Franklin.

Margaret Josephine kept her romantic pledge to her first and only love to the end.

*******

It was her second promise that would forge a future she couldn’t have imagined, rippling through time and the lives of those who came after. It is the reason my parents would someday meet and marry in the desert.

During Franklin’s illness and decline, he had converted to the Mormon Church.  He was baptized on August 20, 1896.  Margaret joined the church eight months later and her parents and sisters were baptized shortly thereafter.  

This was not a popular decision among the “hard-shell” Southern Baptist community.  Since this new religion was neither established nor looked upon with particular favor, they were encouraged to move west to “Zion” to be among those who shared their faith.  This became their dream; to someday live among the saints in the west and to be near an LDS temple.

But Franklin knew he wasn’t going to live to see this dream realized.  And so he asked Margaret to promise that if possible, she would move west to be closer to the faith they had chosen together.  She should go somewhere near an LDS temple so she could finally participate in the rituals and ordinances of Mormonism. 

It took nearly 30 years, but Margaret Josephine was determined to keep her promise.  In the latter part of 1928, she moved across the country to settle in Mesa, Arizona.  My grandfather John and his wife Katie Mae followed in February of 1929. 

 

The 1930 census shows Margaret and her widowed sister, Mary Etta Manning, living together in Mesa, just a few blocks from the LDS Temple.   I just learned that Mary Etta died on April 11 of 1934, leaving Margaret alone again at 64.

 

Apparently on June 23 of that same year, Margaret was working in her garden when a ram (goat) charged at her, knocked her down and gored her to death. 

On her death certificate, the medical examiner reported extensive bruising on her head and chest. 

She must have been terrified.  I wonder if she screamed for help, or if she fought alone… or at all.  I don’t know how long she suffered or who found her, but it makes me sad to know this is how she met her end. 

*******

I will always regret that I didn’t ask more questions about the Peacocks while my mother was here to answer them.  I am ashamed to admit how often discussing my own dramas seemed more interesting than listening to tales of dead relatives.

Nearly 2 1/2 years after Mom's death, I finally screwed up the courage to begin sifting through the contents of her study.  She left behind a treasure trove of notebooks, pictures, stories and poems. For whatever reason, she did not share many of them with us. But I believe she wanted to.

It's not too late.  See Mom, I am listening now.

Waiting for Peace to Bloom

I wonder if this is as good as it is ever going to get....

After two years, nearly 5 months and so many moments without her, I am still learning to adapt to this alternate, rather lonely reality without my mother.   I don't like it.  

I know.  I have choices.  I can choose to wallow in my melancholy or suck it up and make the most of this precious life she gave me.  Honestly, every day I do a bit of both.

I found this poem (or maybe it found me).  It speaks of loss in a voice I understand, and gives me hope for my journey to peace.  

When Great Trees Fall
Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.


When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.


When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.


Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.

Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.


And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. 
Be and be better. 
For they existed.

Who Do I Think I Am?

See the woman on the left, the only one looking at the camera? 

She is my great, great grandmother, Martha S. Flowers. 

I found her (and this picture) in my quest to know more about my mother, my mother's family and myself.  But more about her later...

A short-lived television show, Who Do You Think You Are? and a father-in-law who at 80 has never heard the stories of his ancestry inspired me to begin a search of my own.  Some of my Dad's family history I knew.  Mom's was mostly a mystery.  Until now...

Without waxing too dramatic,  ancestors are the very architects of our existence.  Their challenges and struggles, their decisions about where to settle make up the fabric of  America and echo in the faraway places they left behind. Their children, their choices, how they lived, worked and  died has been passed along in this beautiful mix of DNA and destiny.

I started my search with what I knew: 

Shumways are practically royalty in Utah history.  As a scout and leader for the band of pioneers trekking west for freedom from religious persecution, my great, great, great Grandfather Charles Shumway most likely discovered and approved the Salt Lake Valley long before Brigham Young uttered "this is the place."  His 21 children and 201 grandchildren would colonize much of the west.

 What I didn't know:  

Religious persecution had already played a part in the  Shumway line 200 years earlier. In St Maxient Lecole, Deux-Sevres, Poitou-Charents France (about 4 hours from Paris) Pierre Chamois was one of 200,000 Huguenots driven from his home because of his beliefs.  In approximately 1660, he boarded a ship in England and crossed the Atlantic to settle in Massachusetts. He, or someone registering his immigration, changed his name to Peter, and the American version of "Chamois" became Shumway.

Every Shumway in America descends from him.  

And now I know how the Shumway line runs from him to me...and from France to Salt Lake City: Jacob Chamois, his son Pierre/Peter, Jeremiah (pic below), Peter (who fought in the Revolutionary War), Parley, Charles (the Mormon scout), Andrew Purley, Charles, Quentin, and Dante (my father).

Jeremiah Shumway  1703-1801

I knew less about my mother's family.

My mother was a Peacock.  Proud and elegant, she dreamed of someday completing her family's genealogy. When her health began to fail, she told me that she couldn't die yet; she still had work to do.  She felt compelled to trace her ancestors and perhaps introduce her children to the  genteel ways of the South.  Mom loved the beginning to this 1939 movie classic:

"There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton Fields called the Old South. 

 Here in this pretty world, Gallantry took its last bow. 

Here was the last ever to be seen of 

Knights and their Ladies Fair, of Master and of Slave. 

Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered,

 a Civilization gone with the wind.."

On her mother Katie Mae's side, she came from two distinguished Southern families; the Tarts and the Flowers. When I found her great-grandfather, Samuel A. Tart, I discovered our family's connection to the Civil War.  Why had it never occurred to me before that these folks were Confederates?  

Samuel enlisted and was assigned to the 6th Alabama Infantry Regiment in 1862.  He was among those who marched for days to within two miles of Gettysburg in the sweltering heat of July 1863 to fend off Union troops trying to join the battle.  He was captured in 1864.  Here's what his great grandson Woody Clark remembered:

Woody heard his parents discuss a letter that Sam Tart sent home during the War for Southern Independence. Sam would send home Confederate money. In this particular letter, he told the family, "Spend the Confederate money now, because we are losing this war."

Woody also relates that after Sam was captured during the war, he was placed in a prison camp "up north". After the war, Sam was released and given no money or supplies for his journey home. After months of travel, mostly by foot, Sam made it home barefooted to his family.

Also, the Cope family lived nearby Sam Tart's place. A Cope man from that house fought in the War on the side of the NORTH.  Sam Tart would never go near that land again, often walking out of his way to avoid it.

Back to the woman in the picture...Martha S. Flowers was a mystery.  I could find records showing her as the wife of Benjamin Flowers, but without her maiden name, my search back to her origins would hit a brick wall.   I knew Martha was born in 1827.  As of the 1910 census, she was still alive at 83, widowed and living in Florida. 

I was getting discouraged when I found another family tree that mentioned her name.  Imagine my delight when I clicked on the link to see her looking back at me.  It was thrilling, humbling and more emotional than I ever imagined.  

The picture was taken in 1904 when she was 77.  And now, I also know her maiden name...it was Sims.

The search goes on.  It is exciting and satisfying.   I do it for Mom; to discover the family stories I believe she wanted me to know...and share.