Leaving a Legacy

Book Three is now available

As our children and grandchildren grow and head out on their own, we have fleeting unsettled moments of doubt. Have I prepared them to be successful adults in a confusing world? Do they embrace, or even know, our core values? Will they be okay?

Our awkward efforts to have these important conversations are frequently met with an embarrassed "I know, Mom" and a hastily manufactured excuse to terminate the discussion leaving us wondering if they really do know.

Completing the Summoning Stone Trilogy and publishing the last book gives me an opportunity to continue that discussion in absentia as the teen characters face challenges, mature, and make decisions. When the last page is turned, I hope my sons and grandsons, nieces and nephews will find themselves in those characters. They were, after all, the models.

Grandfathers, Please Step Forward

This summer marked a turning point for me as I watched Dillon connect with his Pops over basketball and a campus tour in Oregon. Where did the years go? I still give hugs and support in the way of grandmas, while Cory and Dillon chat basketball strategies and the latest trades and statistics. I eavesdrop whenever possible.

In the same way, our youngest grandson, Parker, and his Pa have bonded over a shared love for fishing.

At the moment it seems grandfathers have found their rightful places at the head of the mentor line, where they quietly usher their preteen and teen grandsons toward adulthood. 

Some day the boys, in a lightning fast blink of an eye, will realize how privileged they have been to have their Pops and Pa modeling what it means to be a man in today's tough world.

When I held our first grandchild as a newborn, I hoped he would teach me how to be a grandmother. Fifteen years later, both he and his younger brother continue to gently mold me as a grandmother and love me unconditionally, only now they're riding in the front seat where the big boys ride and talk "man stuff."

Flashback

When the boys were in their preteen and early teen years, Cory would take up their challenge to play “Around the World” at the basketball goal attached to our garage. Cory, a basketball player in his own right, played by the rules: you earned a win fair and square; no trophies for showing up here. Games involved wagers with imaginary money, and to this day, I think one of our sons owes Cory several million basketball bucks.

When our older son was a young teen, the inevitable happened. He beat his dad and documented the hard won victory with a celebratory lap around the outside of the house. During our last visit with our grandsons, Cory shared that story with our grandsons. Dillon, not yet a teen, and Parker, four years younger, had been playing “Around the World” with Pops in their driveway for several years, but now the stakes were higher. Pops had dangled a victory lap in front of them.

Shortly thereafter, that very same day, I heard a squeaky preadolescent boy’s voice as he made his first  victory lap around his house. Dillon had bested Pops and, in his best imitation of his own dad’s celebration thirty years earlier, was letting the world know that the baton had been passed.

Thirty years: the blink of an eye!

Unexpected Opportunities

I met Dillon, my first grandchild, when he was just a week old. As we snuggled back to sleep together in the recliner after a 3 a.m. feeding, we came to an agreement: I would try to help him embrace the values passed down through the generations in our family and he would teach me how to be a grandmother. In the past twelve years I’ve watched him begin to live out the family values he’s seen modeled at his home and ours: respect for self and others, trustworthiness and honesty, the rewards of hard work, compassion for and service to those less fortunate, appreciation for the environment, and the importance of using good manners.

In return, as we’ve played games and hiked and camped and cooked together he has taught me so many great things about being a grandmother. To name just a few, I’ve learned that gingerbread houses don’t have to be architecturally perfect; it’s all about the icing and candy. If you really want to play basketball or football, ask Pops. Kids sometimes have a better eye for pictures than grandmothers. You’re never too old to try a zip line. Back to school shopping and enjoying a day at Silver Beach are perfect ways to celebrate the end of summer. Boys like to get daily, goofy email jokes to share with friends at camp. And, finally, being asked to write a paragraph for your twelve year old grandson’s autobiography opens the door wide to tell him how much he’s loved without having to subject him to embarrassing hugs and kisses.

A New Generation of Warrior Women

This uncharacteristic post honors the emerging and growing number of warrior women in each of our lives.  They are the brave women across all generations that include our sisters, mothers, daughters, friends, and granddaughters. They have unexpectedly come face to face with the toughest of life situations and are making hard decisions for themselves and their families. Even though illness, loss, or separation try to define them, these brave warriors are fighting back.

I named my blog Generations and the Illusive Lines That Define Them. I stand corrected. In this case the line that separates me from the warriors is clear: they are the fighters and I am a humble observer.

Imprinting is for Moms, Too

"He's just like his dad!" But what about his mother? It seems awkward to say a boy is just like his mother, so are the mothers of sons destined to have their genetic contributions go unrecognized?

Our younger grandson, ready to start kindergarten, has taken to diving just like his mother, a gymnast and diver. Perhaps Mimi and Pa have shared stories and pictures of Dia in her younger years. Or maybe Dia has videos from competitions that Parker has seen. Or maybe his talent emerges with a gentle nudge from his mother's genes. I'll acknowledge that, as the younger brother, he has to be more daring to play with the big boys, but his skill is the result of more than just reckless courage. No big belly smackers for him. He prepares, jumps, extends, and goes. 

Now where did a 5 year old get that? I say proudly "He's just like his mother!" Thanks, Dia.

Just Do It ...Right!

Nike almost got it right with their Just Do It slogan, but in my opinion, just doing it is not enough. Let's do it right!

As Camp Plainfield 2013 comes to a close, I recall a time 30 years ago when I watched my husband and our sons delve deeply into the time honored tradition of passing the torch.  Today, at 9 years old, our grandson, Dillon is eager to learn and try and do all the chores that accompany responsible adulthood. He wants to embrace Nike's advice and Just Do It! Good for him. It's his time.

Whether it's fixing bicycles or mowing the yard for the first time, adults do eager children, like Dillon, a disservice if they don't teach them to Just Do It Right! The first lessons are always the hardest. Pops pointed out missed spots on the grass, safety precautions for using tools, and all the other basics that provide an important foundation for developing a strong work ethic.

Like most overnight camps, Camp Plainfield is filled with fun activities and one on one time with adults who care enough to call children on cut corners or emerging bad habits. And children get that, despite the momentary inconvenience of do overs the first time around.

Dillon will puff his chest out a little farther as he tells his buddies about mowing the yard, using wood burning tools, and fixing bicycles. He knows how to do it right!

In another four years, younger brother Parker will be the main character in these pictures and he'll learn to do it right. It will be time for him to carry the torch.

SRSLY?

How do we go about selecting a grandparent persona? It seems logical that we would bring our best parenting strategies to the table, but Cory and I want to be selective about the ways we interact with our grandsons. We want to be remembered around the family dining table years from now through fun stories and traditions of our own as grandparents.

Our boys with their Grandma, Madge

Cory was going on a trip this week, so I took out his mother's famous molasses cookie recipe to make his favorite cookies to take on the road. As I looked at her handwriting, I decided we should be more like his mother when it came to having a special relationship with grandchildren. Madge Shaffer was highly educated in the Greek and Latin classics, yet she adapted to the changing times as she aged, without compromising what was important. She loved to make banana bread, apple dumplings, and molasses cookies for the boys and was current on the things that mattered.

She would never have texted in abbreviated form, gotten a tattoo, pierced anything, or used the current vernacular to be popular with the grandchildren. She didn't need to. She had the grandma persona thing down...homemade bread, jams, cookies, hand written notes, and a genuine interest in the lives of her grandchildren.

Fortunately, my son and daughter-in-law have established a very clear foundation with respect to behavior and manners, and Cory and I continue to model the traditions and upbringing that we passed to our sons, and they to theirs. With all of that hard work already in place, I think we're due some wiggle room to establish some Pops' house rules. For example, here it's okay to drink the milk or last of the melted ice cream from the bottom of the bowl like Pops does. The boys understand that's only okay here, and they share a little moment with Pops when they lift their bowls. So, we'll continue paying more than lip service to the values passed to us, while we let the boys share a quick wink over a tipped up bowl of ice cream. 

A Return to Childhood

I spent the weekend with our son's family and found myself returning to the spring days I remember from the 1950s. Electronic devices were left behind as we explored the walking trails at Elcona Country Club in Bristol, IN.  The boys ran and explored the five mile trail system which is part of the partnership our son, Greg, has established with the Audubon Society in his role as Golf Course Superintendent.

Greg encourages club members to use the trails all year for sledding, cross country skiing, running, and hiking. He posts maps and more information on his blog, Rub of the Green, where members get updates on efforts being made at Elcona Country Club to be responsible for and appreciative of the environment. Kudos to the superintendent and board at this country club for their forward thinking that allows current and future generations to enjoy timeless traditions on protected land.

What Inheritance Will You Pass On?

“Every one of us receives and passes on an inheritance. The inheritance may not be an accumulation of earthly possessions or acquired riches, but whether we realize it or not, our choices, words, actions, and values will impact someone and form the heritage we hand down.”

My neice, Julie, and her daughter Gabi, share a common interest in raising money to support the Best Buddies Program helping people with intellectual disabilities. For the past two years they have been riding together--mother and daughter-- in the Hyannis Best Buddies Challenge. This year Gabi, alone, has raised $1450 in pledges for the 50 mile race. If you'd like to support Gabi or want to know more,  go to  Gabi's Best Buddies page.

I ride because I have seen firsthand the power of this program at my school. It has created bonds that I treasure and memories that will surely last beyond my high school years.

Gabi Sears

As my husband and I review portfolios and begin our  retired lifestyle, we are hard put to match the value of the inheritance Julie has passed to Gabi and Gabi will  pass to another young person through her example of selfless service.

2013 Running with the Torch

The generations of living things pass in a short time, and like runners hand on the torch of life. 

Lucretius

I never particularly considered myself to be a torch bearer, but rather a runner behind another who bears a noble torch. If I am to lead, let me be remembered as one holding high a torch representing all that nature brings to the soul. And let me prepare my sons and grandsons to take it from me when the time is right.

Choosing Our Heroes

Nice Guys Finish Last. I'd like to amend this adage. I grew up playing tennis in the Arthur Ashe era. I watched him confront race barriers with dignity, felt proud when he served our country in the armed forces, and mourned his loss when he succumbed at a young age to the AIDS virus contracted from a tainted blood transfusion during open heart surgery. From the age of 13 or so, whenever the question of idols came up, Arthur Ashe was my ready answer. I certainly went through the usual variety of fleeting pre-teen/teen interests: Tab Hunter, bad boy Fabian, or any number of Mouseketeers to name a few, but none endured like Arthur Ashe. No one came close.

 So, how is it that we choose our heroes during the impressionable years? I picked someone I might have been comfortable meeting. I would have done anything for a chance to talk to Arthur Ashe about things that count. We would have talked about tennis, and I know he would have given me good advice about the tough issues that accompany maturing and setting goals. In retrospect, I was fortunate to have chosen strength of character and vision for qualities to look for in a hero. I think I understood what mattered, a legacy from my parents that I hope will live on in my grandchildren as they look for someone to emulate in their impressionable preteen years. I’m sure my parents shook their heads, as I do now, when I survey the options of media-touted idols that range from honorable to flagrantly outrageous.

I hope my grandsons will eventually understand that nice guys not only finish, but they last. Arthur Ashe's programs for kids endure to this day through the Arthur Ashe US Open Kids’ Day; his influence seems to have no shelf life. Tab Hunter, Fabian, where are they now?

Play 60...Who's Counting?

As our younger son shares pictures of his recent hike up Half Dome in Yosemite National Park and our older son continues to find mud from his first Tough Mudder this weekend, it seems our generation raised children who still don't need to be reminded to Play 60. They are wonderful models for their children, who play without watching a clock.

How Do Our Children Define Wealth?

I recently followed a posting on Arrows Sent Forth that asked readers to comment on the merits of trips to theme parks vs national parks. Certainly the status and glitz of the big theme parks scream wealth to a child. In sharp contrast, I spent last week working with a team from Plainfield United Methodist Church in one of the most poverty ridden areas in the country, Frakes, KY.

I was as overwhelmed by the beauty of the setting as any child entering Disneyland. This begs the question: how do we teach our children to measure wealth?

Road Trips...Then and Now

                The Merrillville Gas Station story is urban legend in the Shaffer household and gains more popularity with each retelling. I think it’s the strong connection to the Griswold family vacations that gives the story its listening appeal.

                When the boys were in their elementary/middle school years we traveled to Chicago frequently to visit my husband’s mother. My husband approached these trips with all the focus of a road rally contest.  It was all about making good time. We (actually the boys and I) had a tradition to make traveling in the car easier on everyone. Every time we stopped, usually every three hours whether we needed a break or not, we would rotate seats. This meant that I only sat in the front seat for 1/3 of any trip. My husband always drove even though I offered to give him a break. Hmmm…wonder why!

                On the Chicago road rally challenges we made one stop: the gas station in Merrillville, just before connecting to the toll road to Chicago. On the occasion of the infamous event the boys and I hopped out to use the restroom, ever mindful of the rally time. I left from the front seat and would return to the back when we resumed. Our younger son would ride shotgun. When I finished in the restroom I couldn’t turn off the faucet when I washed my hands, so I stopped at the counter to tell the gentleman about the problem. The boys headed to the car.

                When our younger son got in, my husband took off. Someone was in the front and he assumed all were in their proper places per road rally stop time regulations.Thanks to reminders from the boys, the road rally was put on hold while my husband turned the car around to go back for me. 

                Traveling with children can be challenging and complicated, especially now when this generation doesn't have the option of rotating children to the front seat. The exuberance and optimism that marks the starting point can often be replaced with stony silence and impatience as the trip progresses. Fortunately, I have discovered a fun website that seems to be getting some attention these days (for good reason). Arrows Sent Forth provides some practical advice about places to go and things to see and do with children. I like it for two reasons: it's a good resource for parents and grandparents, and the author is one of my former students. I can trust both her and her suggestions.

Vegetables

     Who would have expected that the tomatoes, squash, spinach, or brussel sprouts we grew in our gardens in the 40s would become the designer foods of the twenty-first century?  We are old enough to have seen the importance of eating vegetables come full circle. In our youth we ate them because they were fresh and free from our gardens. Today we eat them because the nutritionists have given them preferred status on the food pyramid and our physicians keep us accountable. It’s even fashionable to be a vegetarian these days.

     Vegetables aren’t always an easy sell, so it seems appropriate to discuss what I call resourceful camouflage: getting kids to eat vegetables without too much rebellion.  V-8 Infusion has left most of my less creative, more obvious techniques in the dust, but let’s face it; where were those fruit flavored veggie concoctions when we needed help in the 50s-80s?

     When I was growing up, aside from liver and onions which could never be disguised in any way, my mother prepared two foods I really didn’t care for: sauerkraut and turnips. Pushing food around on my plate to make it appear half eaten was never an option. We weren’t far removed from the depression and war rations, so clean plates were the rule.  Since I would never be permitted to hold my nose while eating sauerkraut, I would put my mashed potatoes on top of the offending sauerkraut so I really couldn’t see it. Plus the neutral potatoes (which I loved) soaked up some of the awful acid taste of the sauerkraut.

     With respect to the turnips, my mother automatically mashed them in with the potatoes. As far as I was concerned, that was unforgivable. I think she thought she was doing us a favor by disguising them. She never asked and I knew if I criticized I would become the full time family cook.

     When I had children of my own, I didn’t serve sauerkraut or turnips – mainly because no one could stand the smell. I let the boys try all the other kinds of vegetables, and one son loved them. The other son only ate food in the brown food group so I put mixed vegetables in his waffles! I’m sure he never noticed. Now, to my amazement he has jumped on the designer food bandwagon and loves sushi! Obviously the press is more influential than his mother.

Pilgrim for All Generations

     Pilgrim’s Progress has been #1 on my list of favorite books since 1961. While everyone else I know struggled and swore their way through Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and excerpts from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, I found my genre of choice: the allegory. Nothing beats a well written allegory with characters and places named for their defining characteristics: Doubting Castle, Talkative, Hopeful, and the piece de resistance Christian, the pilgrim.

     Although it was written in the 1670s, Pilgrim’s Progress is timeless, allowing the reader to apply its symbolism to the present for a perfectly crafted story of man’s struggles to arrive at the Celestial City in a state of worthiness; although, symbolically, I suppose any ambitious goal might be substituted. The challenges are universal.

     I try to read Pilgrim’s Progress at least once a year and have 4 copies – one in the original Old English, one modernized version, and a third pictorial copy. I even have a copy on my Kindle in case I get stuck in an airport with nothing of interest to read. Although my youngest son and I may share a common interest in the genre, I’m fairly certain no one in the family has read my all time favorite. I think it’s one of the best “Yes, you can!” motivational books that has certainly endured through generations. See me if you want to borrow a copy. Or, if you are waiting for the movie, YouTube comes through with an uninspiring read aloud video version.

Surprises

You can’t have lived your life as a parent without being on the receiving end of any number or nature of surprises.  I think part of the nine month in utero experience for babies includes some training in the art of surprising parents.

As the boys left home and returned for the holidays, the stories began to unfold as we all gathered at the dinner table. For instance, my husband had never told me about the day the neighbor came over to complain that one of our sons was calling his son some very, very bad names. Our son was mowing and venting his anger not realizing his voice was carrying through the neighbor’s window. Or how about the time I got a call from Key West to let me know our son and his friends were starting home from spring break, now that they had raised bail to get him out of jail? My husband would have told me about that if he had known!

I think one of their best kept secrets had to do with the big round spot on the wallpaper on the bulkhead of the kitchen. For years I had assumed it was left when one of them bounced a dirty basketball against the wall. Oh no…I learned, at another family gathering, it was the perfect outline of a piece of bologna that was thrown up there and stuck, probably as part of some contest. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised because it was just a few feet from the kitchen ceiling fan where the boys flung applesauce from a spoon to see what the spray pattern would be like. To this day, I don’t know which son is responsible for either event. That’s an even bigger surprise-no one ratted!

I feel fortunate. On the parent surprise meter these events hardly move the needle. We were lucky parents, indeed. Occasionally surprised, but mostly lucky.

Saying Goodbye to Boys

              Somewhere around the age of 5 or 6, boys stop publicly showing or wanting displays of affection. The big, extended, heartfelt hugs and kisses are replaced with “fly-bys”—cursory hugs with a quick turn of the head so any attempt at a kiss lands somewhere between the left ear and the back of the neck.

                Having been through this phase with our sons, my husband and I were prepared when our older grandson started school. We didn’t want to let him escape out the front door or head off to bed without somehow letting him know we love him, but we knew he certainly didn’t want a mushy sentimental hug.

                My husband and I each have our own approach to this phase in a boy’s life. He can still get away with the “bigger bigger,” a VERY tight squeeze designed to make a young boy squeal like a girl. It’s a man to man challenge and will probably evolve into some kind of bone crushing handshake. All of this is perfectly acceptable. There’s no overt sentimentality; just a testosterone charged competition.

                I’ve taken a softer approach, since it’s not really appropriate for a grandmother to squeeze the living breath out of a child of any age or gender. I have taken the high road which is evolving with each grandchild’s waning tolerance for affection. From the age of 2 or so I lavished each boy at bedtime and upon departure with the same fond ritual.

                “Did you know I love you today?”…head shake, yes. “Did you know I loved you yesterday?”…another head nod. “Do you know I’ll love you tomorrow?”…final head nod. Then we touch pointer fingers while I make a buzzing noise and say “All my love to you.”

                As time goes by, the boys begin filling in the time words and the buzzing sound until that magic age of aloof shyness hits. Then our routine changes to just touching pointer fingers without the schmaltzy narrative. And now, I just hold up my pointer finger to an 8 year old boy who smiles and breezes through an obligatory hug.

                Whenever I write notes to the boys, I leave out the XXXOOOs and draw a circle around an inverted V; it’s the paper version of my buzzing finger. I think this arrangement can take me through the preteen and teen years into adulthood when genuine hugs return to favor.

Saying Goodbye

                I saw a news segment last week describing the latest ap available to a tech-driven, smart phone, ipad saturated generation. This new, must have ap is called ifidie. (Honestly, shouldn’t it be called whenidie?). In short, this ap allows the user to write a last message friends and family that will be distributed to their preferred social media site or email in a timely way, shortly after their death. I’m not entirely sure who sends it out, perhaps St. Peter at their arrival at the Pearly Gates, for surely no use of electronics would be permitted in paradise.

                The users of ifidie say this is the most meaningful way to communicate with their children. How did that happen? My mother-in-law had an expression she often used as she tried to makes sense of the generational changes that were overtaking her genteel traditions: “I feel like I’ve been dropped here from another planet!” I have become my mother-in-law.

                I know I probably can’t control the timing or nature of my demise, so you can bet I’ll take charge of my last goodbye. I’m at the point in my life where hellos and goodbyes are about even, but the time is coming when the goodbyes will begin to dominate, until I finally reach the last goodbye. At that point there will be no last minute reminders, apologies, or words of sentiment required. By then, my actions will have spoken volumes.

                My children already know they are the single most meaningful accomplishment in my life. I couldn’t be more proud of the adults they have become, armed with enviable work ethics and a tolerance for others that serve them well in both their casual and meaningful relationships. My husband knows that 42 years of marriage is not an accidental milestone. If he goes before me, I won’t try again; it would be futile to attempt to duplicate this relationship. My twin sister  has always known what I needed to tell her, and my friends will let my life speak for itself; it’s all there. My grandsons will come to appreciate how much I loved them from our rituals and traditions: cooking, biking, bedtime stories, camping, swimming, and playing games.

There is no sense letting final words create a maudlin smear on the events themselves. I don’t want some fleeting sentiment thrown out in cyberspace to be deleted or forgotten. I’m living life as an epitaph that may grow shorter as it is passed to succeeding generations, but it will never be a final goodbye. Rather, I hope it will be an igniting spark.