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.