N is for Nieces and Nephews—The Long Arc of Family

This is probably going to be the hardest post I’ll write for the A to Z blog Challenge. Hard partly because I want to protect their privacy and not reveal details they haven’t shared publicly. And that’s not my natural style. I have a tendency to beat small observations to death.

So I started by asking AI to define nieces, and I laughed out loud when it told me: “Nieces are cherished family members who bring joy, sunshine, and love, often described as angels or little princesses who rule the heart.” My brother’s daughters (and son and step‑son) are cherished family members who have brought joy, sunshine, and love into my life. But “little princesses”? Not even close. Growing up, tomboys probably would have been far more accurate. I’d be shocked if there were any glitter‑covered tiaras or net tutus in their box of memories. I’ll have to ask.

AI had this to say about nephews: They “celebrate the unique bond between aunts/uncles and their nephews, often highlighting joy, mentorship, and unconditional love.” The unconditional love part is certainly true for me, and I’m pretty sure my nephew would agree my husband could claim a spot on the team that mentored him—considering Don taught him how to plow snow, and Jesse went on to start his own lawn‑care and plow service.

But even before Don came into my life, Jesse and the girls brought joy. I didn’t see them as often as my folks did when they were growing up, but when I did, it was always playtime. And yes, I apologized to my sister‑in‑law and my mother’s ghosts for leaving all the cooking and cleanup to them at family dinners and holidays while I played with the kids. I was deep into photography back then, and those years are well documented. There’s no denying I was the fun aunt.

My step‑nephew came into our lives with my brother’s second marriage, and by then the “golden years” of bonding had passed, so I’m not as close to him as the others. But he turned into a solid, caring and productive human being anyone would be proud to call family.

All four of them did, and the bond between them is warm and full of love, once you scratch through the surface-stress left behind from caring for my brother during his dementia years. Those of us who've been through that know there is a period of healing that has to take place after adult kids buries their parent. And they seem to be right on schedule in the healing process.

Their growing up years: My heart still smiles at the memories of building forts, swimming, walking in the woods, and doing crafts with my “three musketeers.” In their teen years the girls even worked for me. I had a business making flowers for weddings, and in the summers—when I was busiest—they each spent week days with me in the city. As we sat making corsages and bouquets, I introduced them to Young and the Restless. Or was it As the World Turns? I’m too old to recall the details of long-ago habits and secret pleasures.

If nothing else, I taught the girls that when you have a clean house, you treat yourself to fresh flowers. Both have mentioned that to me recently. I need to revise that directive for myself, though, to: Anytime I go to the store, buy flowers, because my opportunities to do so are getting farther apart as I age.

I’ve watched my brother’s kids grow, learn and weather hard times when their parents divorced. I’ve watched them settle down, raise children of their own, and become productive human beings anyone would be proud to have in their family tree. And I’m pretty sure they’d agree that in addition to being kin, we’ve made the transition to being friends on equal footing. They grew up, and so did I, in all the best ways.

To paraphrase a Hallmark card, “I may not be their mom, but I’m definitely their biggest fan and cheerleader.” 

 

M is for Manuals—Notes for Whoever Draws the Short Straw

 “Manuals?” you ask. How does that word fit my theme for the April A to Z Blog Challenge? At first glance it might seem like a stretch, considering I’m supposed to be writing about the humans, habits, hidden joys and heartaches that shaped my world. But this post is my attempt to write a manual for my own care—just in case, near the end of my days, I can’t communicate with the caregivers and family around me.

Yes, I know none of us can orchestrate how others will treat us when good health leaves the building. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

This isn’t my first rodeo with manuals. After my husband’s stroke, I volunteered at a large website for stroke survivors and caregivers. It didn’t take long to work my way up to the management team, even had a seat on the board. With so many people trying to navigate chat rooms, blogs and forums—many of them brand‑new to computers—I asked my boss if I could write a how‑to manual.

And I did. Clear, step‑by‑step directions for people who were overwhelmed, grieving, hopeful and learning to double‑click all at the same time.

Meanwhile, on the home front, I wrote another manual—this one for how to care for Don and the dog if something happened to me. Neither of them could talk, and someone needed to know things like, “Don’t feed them spinach unless you enjoy cleaning up vomit.”

Some might say it was busywork, a way to feel in control while life spun wildly out of it. Maybe. But it was definitely true that I hated the way people made assumptions about disabled people like Don. Too often those assumptions included a belief that a lower IQ comes bundled with a wheelchair and a limited vocabulary.

Depending on where in the head the stroke occurs, that might be true. But my husband’s stroke was smack dab in the middle of the left frontal lobe which is where speech sentences and grammatical structure is produced, causing what is known as non-fluent aphasia aka difficulty getting words out. It’s akin to having a car where the motor and wheels work fine (Don’s brain and lips) but the transmission that makes the wheels turn (or the words to come out) is broken. He knew exactly what he wanted to say but in the 12 ½ years after his stroke and after six years of speech therapy his vocabulary never increased beyond a core of 25 hard earned words.

But his intelligence was untouched, and his desire to communicate never dimmed. He was a born storyteller and he found a way to still be one. That way was to put me in a position where I had no choice but to explain what was on Don’s mind. Like the day he parked his wheelchair right in front of the door to a cigars and cigarettes store and he wouldn’t let anyone in or out. In a militant way only an x-smoker on a mission could do, he held up three fingers while repeating the word “three!” over and over again. This forced me to tell Don’s story to the gathering crowd about how he used to smoke three to six packs of cigarettes a day and he blamed the habit for earning him heart by-pass and a stroke.

 His special shorthand for all he'd gone through since the stroke was to hold up two fingers and say the word, "two then look up me which was my cue to explain that two neurologists had told the family he’d be a vegetable for the rest of his life. The universe response was usually the same: “You sure fooled them!” And it was true.

To friends and family who spent time with Don after the stroke, it was clear that despite his disabilities he was still the same, intelligent and caring person he’d always been. Before the stroke, we used to tease him that we should number his stories because we all knew the by heart. After the stroke that's exactly what he did.

Only someone who knows you deeply can speak for you when you can’t. I don’t have that person in my life, which is why the idea of a manual keeps tugging at me.

It’s embarrassing to admit I’ve already written a 'manual' for what to do after I die—complete with pictures of who gets what—so why not take it a step further and write one for any future caregivers who might cross my path before I kick the proverbial bucket?

A few sample entries:

• Don’t call me sweetie or dear.

• You can never feed me too much ice cream, but never—ever—try to feed me liver unless you enjoy having it spit right back at you.

• Don’t talk religion at me. You take care of my body; I’ll take care of my soul.

• If you set the TV to an old‑people black-and-white channel, sports, or a game show, I’ll consider it waterboarding. If you must leave me with a fictional character as a distraction when you leave, choose the Hallmark Channel so I can binge on happily‑ever‑afters. (I’ll explain why when we get to the letter R.)

So that’s the starting bones of my manual—I’ll finish while I can still boss people around. And if it also reveals a few of the humans, habits, hidden joys and heartaches that shaped my world, then I’d say M for Manuals earned its place in the alphabet. ©

L is for Letters —And Not a Love Letter in the Bunch

 

For the letter L in the A to Z Blog Challenge, I had a hard time choosing between Love and Letters. I wished I had a stack of love letters tied with a satin ribbon—something I could pull out and sigh over, combining both words into one tidy topic titled L is for Love Letters. But alas, while I’ve written and received hundreds of letters in my lifetime, not a single one qualifies as a love letter. 

I did once get a letter asking if there was any chance we could get back together—written a full year after a guy broke up with me. I kept that letter from the late ’60s until 2022, when I was downsizing for my move to Independent Living, what I called The Great Purging Project. A week later, I saw him for the first time since the breakup, at a funeral. How’s that for the universe laughing at me? We didn’t speak. I doubt he even saw me, and if he did, he probably wouldn’t have recognized me. He hadn’t changed a bit; I, on the other hand, had gained a lot of weight.

My first real letters—aside from those to Santa—were exchanged with a summer friend I met at the cottage. We were pen pals for four years. Another pen pal from my high school years was a boy I also met at the lake. During my downsizing, I became convinced he’d grown up to be a famous movie star. He lived in Georgia, I lived in Michigan, and after several years of writing, he moved and we lost touch. We were just friends, not boy‑girl friends, if you know what I mean. I thought about contacting the movie star, but what would I have said? “Hi, remember me? I’m the girl you sat in a tree with sixty‑plus years ago at your grandmother’s cottage.”

Another letter-writer from my past—a soldier in Vietnam—turned up living less than fifty miles away when I went looking. We had a brother/sister kind of correspondence, eight-to-ten-page letters about everything under the sun, including Twiggy. He had a girlfriend back home planning their wedding, and near the end of our exchanges he was giving me dating advice. (Apparently I wasn’t giving guys a fair chance. Who knew.) When I found his address in this century, I decided a voice from the past might cause trouble—especially if his wife was the jealous type. And, really, what did I expect? That I’d gain another brother figure in my life?

His letter bundle was part of a larger collection of letters I had to downsize out of my life, correspondence between me and 50—yes, fifty—G.I. Joe's stationed in Vietnam, circa 1967. I even had carbon copies of my own letters and index cards to keep track of everyone’s details. It all started one Christmas when I was in college and the local newspaper printed the addresses of servicemen who would welcome holiday cards. Over fifty guys wrote back asking about the perfume I sprayed on my envelopes. It was Avon’s Unforgettable, and I could probably write an entire essay quoting their comments. One guy said that at Mail Call the others passed my letters around before he could even open them. Another said any girl who “smells like that and has such beautiful handwriting has to be pretty.” Several said they carried my letters in their helmets—one to drown out the smell of jungle rot, another to “remember what girls smell like.”

What triggered me doing a deep dive into all my old correspondence was one of those serendipity moments that makes you believe the universe occasionally nudges things into place. During my Great Purging Project, the local senior hall hosted a speaker from The Million Letters Campaign, a museum collecting letters from servicemen from all the wars. During the Q&A, I asked if they’d want my whole collection or just the interesting ones. “Absolutely the whole thing,” he said. “Would you feel comfortable donating your copies too?” I told him I wanted to read them one last time, but yes—I’d donate everything. After spending winter nights reliving my life through those letters, I packed them up and sent them off. It felt right. As I often said during the Greats Purging Project, I wasn’t just selling and donating a lifetime of possessions—I was running an Antique and Collectibles Adoption Center.

I could go on writing about the decade of Christmas letters, the round‑robin chains, and the various pen pals who drifted in and out of my life but it seems enough to say that it wasn’t important who wrote to me, but who I became in writing back. By the time I discovered the blog community, it felt like another serendipitous pairing from the universe. Blogging is simply a bigger envelope to send off into the world. ©