Ghosts

--Not quite what you think.

I was looking over some pictures from last month's family reunion when I realized that while taking pictures, I had captured a shot of a ghost. Yes, a ghost! I didn't realize it at first, but as I enlarged the digital picture I saw it clear as day!

During the reunion I moved about the lodge, taking candid shots of family as they socialized. Then Uncle Aubrey gave me a glance and tilted his head, the way he does when he is giving a warning. He had all ready told me he didn't want me posting pictures of him on the Internet. The nod was just a friendly reminder. This time, though, the look reminded me of something else. I didn't have time to think about Uncle Aubrey, though. Cousins wanted to leave the lodge to look at my grandmother's property, the place where we spent many pleasant summer vacations. My grandmother died about 30 years ago and walking around her on property always invited floods of childhood memories.

I was multitasking the day I discovered the ghost. I was arranging decorative pumpkins between family photographs on the mantle of the fireplace as I downloaded pictures from my camera onto the computer. As I dusted the only picture I have of my beloved grandmother, I saw it, a familiar expression, the slight tilt of the head that I had seen just a few weeks before. I held the ancient 11o photograph (before the days of the 35 mm cameras) next to my digital picture of my uncle. There it was, the same expression. They both cut their eyes and furrowed their brow the same way.

Yes, the familiar expressions and gestures that were once my grandmother's were passed on to her son. My grandmother lives on.

One way we conquer death is through the memories and expressions that are imprinted on those who love us. The stories that are passed on-- traits and customs that bind us together give new life to those who lived before. We can choose to leave a legacy of generosity, courage, tenacity, or one of failure, poverty, or fear.

There is some comfort that someday, perhaps after I am long gone from this world, that a grandchild might look into the eyes of my own son and see something of me in him.

Changing Seasons

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. Ecc. 3:1

It was deceptively slow, so slow I didn’t even realize what had happened. My youth simply slipped away and was replace by mature adulthood. I noticed creaky joints when I got out of bed on chilly mornings, but I couldn’t be getting old. Baby boomers don’t age. I mean, the TV says that 65 is the new 50 and 45 is the new . . . you get the idea.

Then I got the awful news. My Aunt Carol had died.

Uncle Clyde and Aunt Carol raised my cousins in Southern CA. When my dad was transferred to the military base at Camp Pendleton CA, I became acquainted with this branch of my family tree.

For the next year my brothers, cousins, and I trekked through the California hills, along beaches, and found adventures around every corner. I felt like one of those early California explorers, discovering new treasures each day.

Now my cousins are all adults with grown children of their own. Time slipped away. It seemed that all our childhood dreams had gotten lost between changing dirty diapers, balancing checkbooks, and driving to soccer practices.

After the funeral I shared some childhood memories with cousins Sherri and Sandy. I reminisced about the time that Cathy and I climbed steep cliffs overlooking the crashing waves along the beach near San Clemente. Needless to say, our parents weren’t amused by our antics.

That’s when it hit me hard. Both dad and Uncle Clyde died years ago. Three of the four adults in that story were gone. Many of my other mentors are deceased. There are less and less people around who remember me as a child.

The thought sent me reeling. Up until this point I looked at aging as another one of life’s adventures, like marriage, and parenthood. Suddenly I had the overwhelming need to grieve the loss of the person I had been.

This melancholy lingered, even after I returned to my classroom responsibilities. Though I love my job, schoolteacher was a far cry from the news journalist or marine biologists I once planned to be. My life had turned out to be—quite ordinary.

For days I listened to a satellite oldies station and tried to resolve the turmoil inside my brain. Oldies! Each song seemed to bring back some youthful memory and I wept at the remembrance of a time when everything was new and anything was possible.

When the tears stopped and my mind cleared, I went to my computer and talked to people about this melancholy. Others seemed to have dealt with similar “midlife crises.” Most people gave the advice I expected; pray, search scriptures, do charitable works. I still felt empty.

In time, I began to realize that I do have some choices. I can assess my life goals and see if they are realistic and attainable.

Many people testified that, for them, this assessment exercise was a very helpful. Some had outgrown their former goals. When they developed more mature values, new--more satisfying goals emerged. For example, I’m not going to become a marine biologist and I can’t travel on the Calypso with the late Jacque Cousteau.

--But that doesn’t mean I have to give up all my dreams.

Grandma Moses didn’t start painting until she was in her 70s. She had to give up embroidery because arthritis made the needlework too painful. When she mixed her first paints Grandma Moses didn’t realize she was about to become famous the world over.

The Bible is filled with stories about God choosing to fulfill His purpose late in a person’s life, from Caleb to Sarah. Age doesn’t seem to be as much of a problem to God as it is to us.

I found a multitude of stories, both historic and contemporary, of people whose lives seemed to begin after they were much older than I. Perhaps once we are freed from changing diapers or driving to soccer practice, we have more time to pursue the things we were once passionate about. Some of our most fulfilling endeavors can be pursued when our obligations to others have been completed.

In time my anxiety subsided a bit. What I need to figure out now is—what do I do about those creaky joints on chilly mornings.

Sisters

Things feel strange, with Aunt Linda's funeral arrangements and all. Our yearly family reunion was set for next week. Now, who knows what will happen?

It got me to thinking about my own sisters. Now, I have two brothers that I love, but relationships with sisters is very different. Women are complicated creatures.

Just like my mother's family, there are 3 sisters in my family. We are all three very different people. There are seven years between Diane and me. There are seven more years between Diane and Denise.

When I was little, I watched Captain Kangaroo. Diane got a steady dose of Sid and Marty Croft kids shows. Denise had Sesame Street--the before Elmo era. We were destine to be different, right from the start.

In my imagination I assume that I will be the first to pass on, since I do enjoy being the center of attention. Because I'm the oldest, I was always the first at everything. It was a burden. The normal things kids do is shocking to new parents. By the third child they have become numb.

Linda was the youngest sister in that generation. It made me think, I might not be the first to go. That thought really scared me.

Diane, Denise, and I have gone our separate ways, but holidays, vacations, birthdays, reunions bring us together. I can't, I won't imagine what it might be like if I couldn't see them, pass them an e-mail, or call them.

I need to give Diane an extra hug when I see her at the funeral. I need to pick out a nice card for Denise.