Flight 93 Memorial groundbreaking

I’ve written before about the Families of Flight 93 and their tireless efforts to build a memorial on the site where their loved ones died trying to stop a horrendous attack. Yesterday the group broke ground on the new national park in Shanksville, PA, and I had the honor of attending. A beautiful day, a ceremony I thought was very appropriate and respectful.

The only negative was a man in the VIP section (which means he’d been invited) complaining to another man about new jobs in the federal government. He said that the last thing we needed was more government telling us what to do. I was sorely tempted to ask him why he bothered to attend this government event if he felt that way, but I didn’t want to mar the day.

If you haven’t been to the temporary memorial, I urge you to go. Listen to the ambassador tell you what happened and put yourself in the shoes of the people who acted that day—it will humble you.

 

October 16, 2009

I tried writing this on my birthday but I just couldn’t do it.  And then yesterday was two months since Dad died, and I spent it with Mom. Dad was a big kid when it came to birthdays and Christmas, especially in the presents department. In later years he kept asking for a pony or a Jaguar (no, it was not dementia, it was his sense of humor). Of course he never got either one. But he and his wife always took us out to dinner and gave me plenty of presents for my birthday. The PSU football tickets were always a highlight (even if we then lost the game). This year I was hoping to get him to Cantone’s for some really good Italian food (his favorite). Instead I went with my friend Violet, who gifted me with Mastering the Art of French Cooking (she hadn’t heard the hot-skillet story). I’m going to make something from it this weekend.

So I drove in the cold rain yesterday to see Mom. They’ve changed her medications and she actually seems a little more clear-eyed. I took her two slices of my favorite birthday cake (McCall’s Silvery White Cake with my mom’s chocolate-fudge buttercream icing). She said she’d been thinking that there should be cake, and there it was. Joe always makes me pie (his specialty) so I baked this cake with Mom in mind.

We went to one of our regular haunts—Morning Glory’s in Oxford—because I was thinking fancy soup but when we got there, a chicken and asparagus bake caught my eye and that’s what we both had. Very nice. With ricotta cheesecake for dessert. We didn’t do our drive afterwards because of the weather, but we sat and talked for a bit before I headed for home.

And when Joe came home, he brought me a very sweet message from two people I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. Thank you both for the thoughts.

 

Style

I read the Sunday Styles section of the Sunday New York Times thoroughly. Every single article. It takes me most of the week because I pick it up and put it down, but I enjoy it all. I read “Modern Love” and the wedding stories and “A Night Out” with whoever is out somewhere talking to people and the etiquette and the cocktails . . .

This week, however, I was really disappointed with Michael Winerip’s “Generation B” column. He was writing about a summer with his son and how they finally got to spend an evening together right before the son returned to college. He tried to give his son some life advice. He told him to get to know a lot of women before settling down so that he didn’t feel he was missing anything, but he also acknowledged that his own casual experiences didn’t usually end up well. The first part of that bothered me at first, but then I read the piece again and in reflection I think I understand what he was getting at.

But this part was clear and it’s what really bothers me. He said, “the reason to marry is to have children.” No, it isn’t. The reason to marry is to have love and give love. The reason to marry is to form (what one hopes will be) a lifetime partnership. The reason to marry is to multiply the joys and divide the sorrows that life brings to all of us.

Not every marriage produces children. When they do, it should be seen as the blessing it is. And I do believe that marriage should come first—having that partnership makes the trials of parenthood easier, too. But having children is not “the reason to marry.”

 

September 1, 2009 (really this time)

We all know I’m mad at the Huffington Post and have sworn them off for any political news whatsoever because they obviously don’t fact-check what their people write. But I did find a really nice piece about a parent dying and I want to share it. If you click on the link, please do not read any of the ads around it; that way at least they won’t profit from me.

 

Passing the torch

Normally when I get published, I’m very excited. And I’ve just been published in the Penn Stater, which is a particular Blue-and-White thrill. However, this time any pleasure I feel is somewhat dimmed. A few months ago my dad told me that the Penn Stater was looking for submissions for “first day” stories. He and I both attended PSU-Altoona and we both loved it. He said he’d write his, I could write mine, and we’d submit both. After I read his, I wrote mine, dovetailing the two stories. And I didn’t show it to him because I wanted him to have the pleasure of reading it first in print (if we were selected).

Well, Dad died two weeks ago. And the Penn Stater just came out and they chose my piece but not his. I have no argument with the magazine—I certainly know editorial procedures and it could have been for any number of reasons. But seeing my piece in there, and not his, just reminds me he’s gone.

So here—complete—are both his and my work. Thanks, Dad.

The Beginning of a Life-Long Love

I remember my first day at what is now called Penn State–Altoona very well. I really didn’t want to be there. On that September morning in 1951, I walked the two miles from my house in Juniata to the Altoona Undergraduate Center of Penn State (AUC). It was on the grounds of what had been Ivyside (amusement) Park. The largest concrete swimming pool in the world was now the parking lot, the bathhouse converted into classrooms, the shooting gallery now the chemistry lab, and the skating rink the Student Union. I had desperately wanted to go away to school but family finances wouldn’t allow it. I envied those who went to real colleges—like Juniata, Indiana, and St. Francis. They would be living the “La Vie Collegian” while I was stuck at home.

The 200+ incoming freshmen gathered in one of the larger rooms in the bathhouse where we were welcomed by the director and various members of the staff. Most were graduates of area high schools. Quite a few ex-GIs and a smattering of other older students–very few girls. The last speaker of the morning was the music instructor. He talked about the friendliness of AUC and practically demanded that we say “Hello” to anyone we meet on campus. We were then dismissed for lunch.

As we walked to the Student Union, we awkwardly greeted everyone we passed. At first it seemed weird to greet strangers but, by the end of an afternoon of filling out forms, meeting with advisors, and learning the Penn State Fight Song, we became a cohesive bunch. I had met people who would become life-long friends, ate lunch with faculty members who talked about real life—baseball, movies, and cars. After the session was over, I got a ride home with another student from Juniata.

At supper that evening, I got the inevitable question, “How did you like AUC?”

I replied, “It was better than I expected.”

It was a rough beginning for a romance that has lasted to the present day.

                                                                                            —John E. Boyd, AUC ‘51

“Ahh, Altoona.” That’s all I heard growing up. This “Altoona” was, according to my father, the most wonderful place in the world to go to college. I didn’t believe him. After all, I saw the town every time we visited my grandparents—with its railroad tracks and hilly streets it didn’t look at all like the college towns I saw on TV. Occasionally on those visits my dad would stop the car at the edge of the tiny campus and go on and on about “Bathhouse U” while all the kids squirmed and said, “Can we go home now?”

Fast-forward. In September 1975 I packed up for college. Where was I going? I had not exactly been ambitious in either grades or college applications, so unlike my two sisters I was not headed for University Park. My father was—for once—delighted with my procrastination and uttered one word: “Altoona!” The only reason I didn’t argue was the short drive to State College, so I thought I’d spend my weekends in a “real” college town.

My procrastination also meant off-campus housing. My parents helped me move into a house I would share with three other freshman girls and a landlady. After I unpacked, my father tried his best to persuade me to walk around the campus so he could “show me around.” All I could think was I wasn’t going to be seen on any campus for the first time with my parents! I quickly ushered them to the door. I still remember the look on their faces as they said goodbye. I was eager to start college life; my parents were watching their last daughter leave home.

And it was better than I expected. Just as it did for my father, Penn State Altoona brought many wonderful memories and friends I cherish to this day.

                                                                                    —Therese Boyd, ’79 (Altoona ’77)

 

Things I’ve learned in the past 10 days

I hate funeral voices. And I hate the question: “how are you doing?”

I like (maybe the word is “appreciate”?) sympathy cards. I just don’t like reading them.

My in-laws are among the best people on earth (okay, that one I’ve known before but they continue their standing . . . ).

My mother is a wise woman (yes, I knew that, too, but still . . . ).

 

July 15, 2009

Family. Sigh. I know there are so many jokes about the subject. Sometimes if we couldn’t laugh about it, we’d cry. And I’m not talking about my mother here. Scientists say that siblings’ genetic makeup is a crap-shoot. Every child is a selection of traits from the parents—which can lead to a very diverse group of individuals. Yesterday my brother very clearly, very bluntly, and very coldly showed me that he is a lot like my other brother. I wish I could do something for both of them, help them see that life is too short to be that angry. Instead I’ve got to just take a deep breath and move on.

 

July 6, 2009 cont.

I haven’t written about my mother in a long time, partly because it’s such a painful subject. She’s still in the home two hours south of here. She still functions pretty well day to day, but she gets more tired and she herself says she’s losing more of her memory.  

The worst part is how aware she is of what’s happening. The best part is that I see her every week. We have lunch. Maybe we run errands. I try to come up with subjects for discussion that she might like. Since I’m the one who helped her with the family geneaology, I know her family tree very well and we talk about people I never met but she remembers. When I see her tiring, I leave after making plans for the following week.

I doubt I would handle this illness as gracefully as she does. As she always has, my mother continues to teach me by example. I’m so grateful to be her daughter.

 

January 7, 2009

(first time I wrote the year…) Good news of sorts on my mother. I took her to the neurologist yesterday and he says her dementia (primary progressive aphasia) has not worsened since he last saw her. He agreed that a medication change might take care of the night-wandering. She will remain in the locked ward while they observe her with the new meds, but we (family and caregivers alike) are optimistic that she’ll be able to move back to assisted living, where she can sit in her room and listen to NPR, which is her natural state.

 

December 4, 2008

I haven’t had to use the “dementia” category in half a year. I should be grateful. My mother has been complaining lately that she’s in a fog again. (I don’t mean complaining as in whining; I just mean that she notices this and she’s depressed about it.) We hoped once the UTI was cleared up, she’d be better. She is, but still the fog persists. So I’m taking her to the neurologist in the beginning of January; it was the first appointment I could get. He’ll probably up her meds a bit. Her nurse says her present dose is pretty low. To watch her struggle just breaks my heart. Tomorrow I’m going to help her do her Christmas cards and maybe send an email note to my brother. She hadn’t realized she has access to a computer at the home—not that she could use it independently, but at least it’s there for residents’ use. She’s in a good place. I just wish she was closer to me so I could see her more often.