Category Archives: Family

13May / 2008

Mother’s Day 2007

Mothers’ Day, 2007
Salem Presbyterian Church

My mother, Carol Jeanne Parsons Shafer, was a member of this congregation from 1960-1968. While she was here, she was a wife, a mother of three including two teens, a homemaker, a “minister’s wife,” an occasional organist, the director of the Children’s Choir, a university student working on her teaching certification and later her master’s degree, and an elementary teacher, among other duties. The word “multi-tasker” describes her life; she was busy. She was an equal partner with my father in all of her duties. When I read the following scripture, I think of my mother and the devoted care she gave to her family, her church, and her students.

Just as we know from the Parable of the Good Samaritan that everyone we encounter is our neighbor, we also know that we are all mothers and fathers to each other, husbands and wives to those we love and to the institutions we serve. I invite you to listen to this ancient scripture— those who are mothers, those who mother others, and those who have been mothered—and to think of how these ancient words describe a woman who is the CEO of her home and family, the administrator and manager of her life and the lives of her extended family—- a woman, single, married, divorced, or widowed—any woman who uses her skills to be the creative source within her home and her world, watching over, nourishing, protecting, caring, and mothering those who come within her realm.

Proverbs 31: Verses 10-31 are an acrostic poem, each verse beginning with the successive letters of the Hebrew alphabet.

Proverbs 31:10-31

“A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands.
She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark; and provides food
for her family and portions for her servant girls.
She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.
She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable; and her lamp does not go out at night. 
In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy. 
When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple.
Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. 
She makes linen garments and sells them, and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom and dignity, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.
‘Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.’
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. 
Give her the reward she has earned and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”
“This is the Word of the Lord”

The Proverbs 31 woman is charitable, entrepreneurial, fashionable, financially astute, healthy, industrious, loving, managerial, productive, prudent, resourceful, responsible, reverent, self-confident, skilled, trustworthy, virtuous, wise, praiseworthy as a wife and mother. She represents the essence of womanliness and is the mother to us all.

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06Mar / 2008

Adventure in Third World Medicine…Again

Max experienced chest pains this afternoon and called Dr. Anderson’s office, and was advised to go to the ER. So….he drove himself to the ER [we’ve been through this before, haven’t we???!!!]. When I got home from a DAR meeting, he called, having escaped to the restroom. “Oh…no!!….ER again….yikes”……so, I rushed over there and found him lying in bed, looking flushed. He had been x-rayed, blood-tested, and talked to the cardiologist—and Dr. Anderson had requested “aggressive measures.” [Thank you…..Dr. Anderson]. Max has mentioned chest pains several times recently, but could not be persuaded to see the doctor.

The hospital was sending him to either Jewish or Nortons, depending on bed availability. We waited, and waited. The doctor came by and signed off on allowing me to drive him to the Louisville hospital, after Max was adamant about no ambulance. Finally about 5:45, I chatted with the front desk again, mentioning that neither of us had eaten much lunch [I had not eaten any lunch]. I asked if I could take him home to rest and have a meal—-they could call us when the bed became available.

No dice—he had to wait there, but they suggested I go get food. So, I went home and made sandwiches, and called Dee and Rick. By the time I returned, about 6:30, Jewish had called with a bed. We ate our sandwiches in the ER and finally about 7:00, all the arrangements were made and we were allowed to leave.

Max went out, got in his car, and drove it home. No use to argue on that one…. We packed a few things and drove to Louisville. When we got to Jewish, it was dark—and I could not see the parking signs, forcing us to circle the block. The testy one was really irked. On the second try, I saw the faint sign and made the correct turn. We parked up in the garage with no problem and rode the elevator down with an employee in scrubs who told us where to go next. We had to walk through the outpatient building, across a bricked open area [like a town square] and into another building. When we got to Registration, no one was there, so we went to the ER, where
we asked a sheriff deputy where we should go. Turns out, we had arrived at registration, after a trudge of several blocks……good thing Max was not really ill.

The registration person went through a pre-registration process, even though Max had the bed number and nurses’ name. Finally another register person set her straight, she got it all done, and escorted us up to 4-East. We arrived at the room, to find confusion. A very elderly, and very ill man was being admitted, and his bed made, while SIX members of his family hovered in the room, giving advice—and stinking to high heaven with fragrance. I said to the nurse, “I cannot go in there, too much perfume.” She said, “Too many people!” So, we stood in the hall, talking to the nurse, and waiting for the confusion to die down. Max was visibly tired. Eventually they got the old man in bed and could draw the curtain. Max then went into the bathroom and changed into a hospital gown, while the nurse took me to the station and went over his papers. By the time we finished, two of the other family had left, leaving only four, plus the patient, plus the aide, on that side of the very small room. Another aide got Max into bed, took his temp and his blood pressure, which to no surprise, had gone up over 10 points.

Well–really–world class hospital and medical care, indeed. There we were……standing in the hallway, waiting to share a room with another patient and four of his next of kin. And, the room was no bigger than the one at WCMH that Max had to share with a former student the night his hip came apart several summers ago. On the other hand, at Ortho Indy last year, Max had a room bigger than our house.

I had thought I would stay with him, but the nurse informed me that since the other patient was male, only a male family member could stay. Oh…well….I would have had to sit in a straight chair all night and physically move myself and the chair every time Max needed to get up. I was glad to go home.

When I left, I discovered that the entrance we came in was closed. I had to leave through the ER, walk down a dark alley and across the plaza again, back through outpatient, to the garage, where, fortunately, I had remembered the correct floor. I was really turned around, because I thought I would exit going East and turn North. But, I found myself crossing 2nd Street, going west to 3rd Street. Good grief!!—going west in downtown Louisville at 10:00 p.m.—-my worst nightmare—being alone in the city at night. So, I drove down 3rd Street to Chestnut, circled back, and got on I-65 north. Good thing I grew up in Louisville and know my way around downtown. Once I was across the Kennedy Bridge, the ride home though the dark roads was uneventful.

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12Mar / 2007

Assembling the Wardrobe

When I was young and slender, it did not matter that I liked clothing styles and colors that do not look quite right on me. As I have aged, and gained, it matters more. Who wants to look like a big muffin? All sorts of problems have emerged with my wardrobe: color, size, fabric texture, fabric design, fit, not to mention, shoes.

An ash blond, now going gray, with green eyes, I look best in the soft summer colors. I know that, having attended a “color” session, where I learned that the oranges, yellows, and reds I wore in my 20’s and 30’s are not my thing. Blues, greens, and violets are my colors. At the moment, red and black are the winter colors that have dominated merchandise offerings in my size—-and beige. I refuse to wear black near my face, though I do wear black slacks and skirts. Beige makes me “disappear,” as if I am not there, while red makes me look, and feel, violent. Whoever designs/selects colors for large sized women ignores the proper color schemes so carefully worked out by color “therapists,” instead providing a endless selection of blacks. I suppose many fat women like black because it makes them feel more slender; it makes me feel ready to attend a funeral.

Cotton is my fabric of choice, followed by linen, silk, and rayon. Polyester makes me uncomfortable–too harsh on the skin–while acrylics cause some breathing problems–all those little loose threads which are inhaled. Cotton knit is my favorite garb. Of course, it is neither elegant nor formal. It is not particularly easy to care for, either, as it must be steam pressed to look decent, though one only looks decent as far as the car before the wrinkling starts. Same problem with linen. Generally, even with my grumbling efforts to press my clothing, I look like I slept in whatever I have on in about five minutes, at best.

Texture is important. I have some polyester slacks that slide all over me and make me slide all over chairs. I hate them. I like the feel of cotton knit; it gives and one does not slide all over furniture. My skin is very tender, part of the Fibromyalgia problem, so soft clothing is a must. My favorite daily clothing is worn out t-shirts and cotton pants, which I wear until they are literally rags. The more ragged, the more comfortable. My family is used to my ragged clothing, which I only wear around my home, but it occasionally shocks visitors. I make an effort, well, a slight effort, to be more presentable in public.

Not much choice in fabric design is available for large ladies. I’ve learned not to wear large prints, which make me look startling. While I like small flowered prints, they are not flattering. What looks best and what I like to wear are slacks and tops in contrasting or blending colors. What is available for fat ladies are tacky printed tops which are not long enough to cover all the offending parts, like hips and pot bellies. 

In an effort to placate large women, merchandisers such as Talbot’s or Land’s End or even Lane Bryant present clothing in the same styles as those for slender women. Of course, slender women are not desperately trying to cover hips, fat arms, and pot bellies with yards of tent-like fabric. Clothing designed for the slender types often looks dreadful on large women. If one has a pot belly, a neat little sweater that boxes off at the waist is NOT just-the-thing. Often, style advisers tell large women to use long lines to “fool the eye.” And, where are these long line garments to be found? Beats me. I have not found many, though Lands End and Junonia sell cotton tunic tops for large ladies, which I purchase by the dozens. 

Shoes present a different problem. Comfortable shoes, like men wear, are not fashionable for women. They are hardly available for women, though I have resorted to purchasing some men’s Rockport’s, which are so-so in comfort level. The trouble with men’s shoes is that they are heavy. High heels, pointed toes, slick soles are the lot of women. When I was slender, I loved wearing fashionable shoes; they did not hurt my feet back then. But, even then, I wondered why modern, well-educated women persist in wearing uncomfortable shoes in which they can neither run nor even walk well. Now, having also given up the hated panty hose, I like to wear open-heel, slip-on shoes, with socks; the kind of shoe that has a running shoe bottom. This style requires slacks, as it looks unbelievably awful with dresses. It does not look “correct” with dress clothing either, but I have discovered that I can walk in these shoes and that they provide a broad, flat base on which to stand—very nice when one is rather unsteady. 

Anyone reading this far, realizes, of course, that my style is called “frumpy.” The problem is that I no longer care. I admire my friends who look elegant and sleek, who can wear exotic clothing with panache, who unerringly select styles that flatter them and look chic at the same time. I am hanging on to “frumpy” because I think “fishwife” is the next step on my way down to the bottom of the fashion cellar.

Women’s dress clothing is a trap. We pride ourselves on being emancipated and we look with horror on past restrictions such as ancient Chinese foot-binding. Fashion dictates that women wear bras, girdles, pointed toe shoes, high heels, panty hose, tight jackets which restrict the arms, clunky jewelry, not to mention hairstyles and make-up that require a lot of fuss. We have not come a long way….baby.

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22Feb / 2007

Family Meals

Recently, when my oldest son and his wife came for a visit, I jokingly inquired which of his favorite dishes he would like me to prepare. Not noting the irony in my tone, he said, doubtfully, “favorite?”, causing me, and Max, to roar with laughter. Cooking is not one of my talents. “Adequate” and “average” are terms that come to mind in describing my meals, although “dreadful” and “awful” often fit, too.

According to my Grandfather Parsons, my Grandmother Hazel [Dee Dee] was a wonderful cook. Her bean soup was great, but I have no other memories of a wonderful meal at her home—and I spent a lot of time with her as a child. My grandfather was a positive and optimistic person; since my memories clash with his statements, I wonder how many of his statements were just PR. Dee Dee’s two daughters were not cooks, either. My mother was a dreadful cook. She prepared pancakes that were burned on the outside and runny on the inside; I have never figured out how she did that. She was also famous for making “cottage cheese” from spoiled milk; of course, no one in the family would eat it. Somehow, we always had a lot of spoiled milk. She could fry steak into hockey pucks. Her worst concoction was something made with asparagus and cheese? and covered with cracker crumbs. It looked like vomit and tasted worse; she served it in the dining room on Sunday meal occasions. But, she was brave. She persisted in providing dreadful meals and inviting friends over to eat, year after year. Once their children were grown, she and my father “ate out” the last thirty years of their lives, to everyone’s relief.

My grandmother and I cooked together when I was a child, mostly treats—cookies, pies, and cakes. I do not have any memories of our fixing vegetables or meat dishes together. When I married at 18 and went off to study at Purdue, I had to learn to cook. We were poor and I ruined a lot of food, which we ate anyway. I only had one small cookbook and I faithfully read and tried the recipes. In my junior year, we both had classes near the Union late in the afternoon and were happy to eat our evening meal there. Unfortunately, my cooking never improved much. It certainly got no better as I had children and juggled college classes with raising babies and small boys. Later, when I started teaching, we had many restaurant meals; I just did not have the energy to cook. The truth is that cooking is something I remember about 5:00 in the evening, if then. Oh…..the-kids-are-hungry-and-what-am-I-going-to-do-now? My mind is on other things. Over the years, I have gathered four shelves of cookbooks, boxes of recipes I clipped from newspapers, as well as boxes of recipes my mother, grandmother, and former mother-in-law clipped from newspapers. Nothing helps. I will never rise above the level of adequate. 

Strangely, though, in spite of the mediocre meals, the dining room table has always been a gathering place for my family. Sitting around the table laughing and telling stories was a tradition that encompassed the three generations I know, as well as the ancestral family groups my grandparents remembered. My grandparent’s home was the gathering place for many meals. With my parents, we had many meals over the years in our homes or at restaurants in which we sat and talked on and on. My sons and I have continued the tradition, sitting for hours around the table in my home, telling the old stories and laughing until we cry. This week, as son Jim and wife Shinobu blew in on an Alberta clipper, we once more enjoyed the pleasures of mediocre food and wonderful talk and laughter. One of the aspects of our talks is that we mostly argue about politics and religion—the forbidden topics of polite conversation. Between my husband and me, and my two sons, and my daughter-in-law, we pretty much hit the ends of several spectrums in politics and religion. We argue and discuss—and we laugh. We tell the old stories and the new stories—and laugh until we cannot breathe and tears run down our cheeks. It is often four-five hours later before we leave the table–refreshed and restored from the food of family love—true comfort food.. Family meals—one of life’s most precious treasures.

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10Feb / 2007

Breaking the Rules

My mother loved rules. She would say, “I’m going to make a rule.” and she would. She had all sorts of rules, such as how to properly lay a table for a meal, the selection of music for an event, what should be said in a thank-you letter. Perhaps Miss Manners consulted Mother on various rules; they would have liked each other. When she retired, Mother made a rule to arise at 6:00 a.m., as usual. No slacking off and sleeping until noon for her. Since she was an elementary teacher, making rules fit right into her job description. Rules keep Third Grade in order.

She was also a minister’s wife, and a gracious lady; therefore, she had rules about an orderly house, proper behavior in various rooms, suitable times for meals, proper clothing to be worn, how to behave in church, and such. Being a minister’s family required that the living room always be presentable for callers and guests. In practice, that meant we children could only walk through, not sit there, and walk at a suitable pace, no running. It also meant that the family never used the living room. We lived in large old church manses, so we children had rooms of our own to use; occasionally we had homes with dens or family rooms, which we children could use. The kitchen was the room in which the family most often gathered if the house had no den. When I was a teen, we lived in a smallish house in Knoxville, not as big as the larger manses we were used to. My father used the living room as his place to write and no noisy children were allowed. Later, when we lived in a lovely old house in Salem, he claimed the back parlor as his study and we children, by then two of us rambunctious teens, were relegated to the large, enclosed, side porch. I don’t think my mother thought through the ramifications of this “off limits” living room concept until it was too late. A family that has no place to gather, has no place to be a family. Finally, by the time my parents bought the condo in Columbus where they lived for the last thirty years of their lives, the family was allowed to sit in the living room—a little late, but nice.

I carried on the same silly formal living room concept when I had small children. I say silly, because my husband and I did not entertain formally and had no reason to not use the largest room in our home. But, we were both raised on the formal living room concept—and could not let it go. I did let the boys spread their toys out to play in the living room, but they were not allowed to climb or sit on the furniture. I did not realize how this offended my children until one son retaliated by taking that much-loved [by me] furniture to college, where it was soon trashed. We solved that “no place to be” dilemma by building a large family room where we had room to breathe–and enough recliners and sofas for everyone.

Some rules I broke recently, that I can mention in public, include moving the TV into the living room, putting a recliner in the living room, putting pictures [instead of portraits—who has those now days??] into the living room. Obviously, Mother’s rules about a formal living room were straight out of the Victorian era and British manor houses—and straight out of her mother’s home, where the formal living room concept also prevailed. The formal living room, an unused living room, in our house is gone, replaced by family room casual; now I am just trying to find enough seats for all the big men in the family. The six-footers look extremely uncomfortable in Aunt Francie’s dainty apricot velvet occasional chairs which are basically made for people 5’2”—knees on chin sort of thing. Our living room is rather small, but I am looking for some real men chairs somewhere—what with five six+ footers and two other good-sized men to seat.

Mother-the-rule-maker’s children, an uncooperative lot, resisted all the rules, although all three of us succeeded in rule-dominated occupations–teaching and nursing. Even so, learning to break those rules has been difficult. In countless decisions, some daily, others not, I have to think myself over the hurdle of breaking mother’s rules. It’s sixty years later and I am making some progress.

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