Family reunions....

Alice, Fritz and Rosella - The youngest Roddes

Last weekend we had the fun of seeing some of our extended family at what my kids fondly refer to as the annual family reunion. It is funny, because I never thought of it that way until they started calling it by that moniker.

To me, it's getting together with my aunts and uncles and cousins, just like we have done my whole life. But for my children, it's an occasion, something special and out of the ordinary, because we live a long ways from Minnesota, where they all live, and we don't get to see everyone very often.

I am incredibly blessed with a wonderful extended family, so it is always a happy time to get together and catch up on what everyone is up to. But these days, it has some bittersweet elements, as well, because it is a reminder that the Greatest Generation is rapidly aging, and won't be around forever.

Bud, Alice, Shirley, Fritz and Rosella
This year, we were missing several of the aunts and uncles. They are getting too fragile to come out to the cabin that has been the spot for the annual get together for many years, and so they have been left behind. Although they weren't present physically, they were present in our hearts and minds. But it is not the same without them, and they were missed.

The shocking thing I realized, however, is that as they fall away from us, one by one, we are slowly but surely turning into the oldest generation in the family. Our parents, siblings and their spouses for 60 years and more, are the glue that holds us together, and binds us as part of the same family story.

The traditions of the past, which we have come to look forward to, will slowly fade away with our parents, I suspect, and by the time I am a grandmother, we won't be doing these family events any longer. There will be new events, no doubt, but the opportunity to see the extended relatives that I grew up with will be fewer and farther between, and soon, it will be at funerals that we renew our acquaintanceship, instead of the happy times when we can all enjoy the moment.

I was sitting inside the cabin, the area that was always reserved for The Adults, when I came to another correlated, and yet shocking, realization. I am now one of The Adults. This is separate and different from being an adult, with the responsiblities and obligations that entails. Anyone can be an adult, but you have to be something beyond to be one of the The Adults, with inside table privileges.

Within the family circle, being one of The Adults means you are a go to person, one of the people everyone else looks to for everything from towels and boat pulls to lunch and dinner. The children play in the water, no matter how cold it may be, while The Adults discuss the weighty issues of the day and observe that children appear to be incapable of feeling cold, since the water is a chilly 60 degrees and they are in it, anyway.

This year, I realized we actually splintered into three separate factions. The oldest adults were inside, sitting in the most comfortable chairs, stationed where they could see everything but not have to go far.

The youngest members of the family, torn from the water for a few minutes to sustain themselves with some yummy food, sat at the table nearest the door, ready to run back and play the moment they finished eating.

Then there was the middle group, surrounded by both our parents and our children. We all went out back and sat outside at a picnic table out of sight of the crowd. It was interesting how we stratified, a generational layer cake, delicious and fun and complex and comforting.

I am very fortunate, because my extended family is the best kind there is. They are warm and engaging and welcome anyone and everyone to the party. It is fun for my children to bring their friends along with them, because they know that person will be made welcome, and made to feel at home.

Too often, we hear of family dissension and relational discord. I am lucky to be part of a tree with many branches, carefully tended, and with no need to prune.

A rose by any other name?

I am doing something this week to reverse the last 25 years of my life, and there is a delicious irony to it that I must share.

It is hard to believe, but 25 years ago, come July 21, I married the man I thought was a dream. As regular readers of my blog are aware, that decision did not pan out as well as I had hoped. [I am ever the optimist....]


But this is not about him, so I will leave it at that and not take any of the pot shots you are all waiting for, and which, in my opinion, he so richly deserves. (Okay, that was a teensy, weensy small sauce pan shot, I realize, but sometimes I just can't help myself.)

The best things to come from that ill fated union were my beloved children, who continue to surprise and delight me every day of my life. I cannot imagine what life would be without the two people to whom I have devoted so much of my time and attention over the last 24 years, and I don't really care to speculate on it, either. But I do know that when they came into my world, it changed for the better, and I would not be the person I am today without them.

A few other positive benefits resulted from that time in my life, which now feels like someone else's life, if you want to know the truth. I have a house I wouldn't have, I have a frilly little high maintenance dog that I adore, I have a lot of stuff that I probably don't need, but really like. I also live in Kansas City, which still surprises me. [For those who were born and raised here, I'm sorry to have to say this, but Kansas City is not exactly the apex of cool places to live for the rest of the country. Enough said.]

A few negative impacts have also resulted from that hasty and ill advised decision I made all those years ago when I was young and stupid. [I realize I have left myself wide open to the observation that the only thing that has changed is that I am now old and stupid. I leave it to your discretion. Personally, I think I've wised up a lot in the last five years, but I know I have a ways to go.]

The biggest negative impact is to my children's well being, which has been severely strained by going through a divorce. For all those who are fooling themselves out there, thinking that THEIR divorce will be different and the kids won't get hurt, let me just enlighten you.

Divorce is a quick trip to hell, and the road back is a lot longer than the slide in. You will survive, your kids will survive, but if you think it won't affect the rest of all your lives, you are kidding yourself. I did everything in my power to protect them and to help them, and they still got hurt. Divorce is painful, and it changes you forever, and there is no escaping that unfortunate reality.

However, there is a bright spot in all the agony. The nature of crisis is that it either splits a family apart, or brings them together. Most of the kids I know who have gone through a divorce find their siblings in a way that siblings in a stable family don't.

My kids have a strong, loving relationship completely outside of the one they have with me, and it is one which will serve them well for the rest of their lives, long after I am gone. That has been a goal of mine since I first learned that child number two was on the way, and it is something that I know they cherish. When my daughter calls her brother her best friend in the world, she means it, and it is a really special thing.

I have also forged a bond with each of my children because of our experiences during the divorce that we would not have had otherwise. We were always a team, of sorts, I think, but the divorce clarified and strengthened those bonds for us into a tight knit unit that I cannot imagine anything ever shattering. We have enough confidence in our relationships with each other that we have no fear to allow others in, and I swear I will be the world's best mother-in-law. Seriously. In fact, I am ready and waiting for the girl of my dreams to take over the care and maintenance of my son. [He is almost 24, tall, dark, and handsome, and VERY available, by the way.... Just sayin'.]

The delicious irony of this 25th anniversary is that on the 22nd of July this year, I am going back to my maiden name. I never actually lost it, it was always a part of my name, but now I am formally dropping the married name and going back to the last name that I was given the day my parents claimed me for their own.

My maiden name is one I wear with pride - my father's life long gift to me. It is a name that was conferred by my relationship to a man whose life was much too short, but lived very well, and it is a name I am lucky to call mine, as well. I am fortunate to wear my last name as a badge of honor, and I will do the best I can to enhance, and not diminish, that name, as I carry it forward.

I am also, in the process of changing my name, rectifying a wrong that has annoyed my mother for the last 40 some years - I am correcting my middle name to the one she always wanted me to have, and which, for some unexplainable reason, was not on my birth certificate. When pressed as to the reason she didn't just correct it after the fact, her answer is a simple shrug of the shoulders, and an "I don't know."

But after all she has done for me, the very least I can do for her is to make sure my name is the one she wanted me to have - Sarah Elizabeth, after two women in the Bible. There is a meaning to my name, one which resonates for her. Sarah and Elizabeth were two women who waited through all their childbearing years to have their beloved children, just as my own mother waited for me to come along. After much heartache and despair, I finally arrived on the scene, just as their children came as a surprise to them at the end of their childbearing days.

Ironically, taking on a new middle name has not been difficult at all. It has always felt like my name, more than the middle name I carried, and is comfortable and satisfying to me. I have never been fond of my first name, but with the addition of Elizabeth, suddenly, the name feels right. The kaleidoscope has turned, and at long last, the pattern has resolved, and it is bright and colorful and lovely.

I hope that with the change of name, so to will my luck and fortune change, as well. I hope that the new name will change my perspective, change my expectations, change my resolution, change my outlook. I hope that with the new name will come new opportunities, new attitudes, and new interests. I hope to keep the best of the old, and find the best of the new.

So, come July 22, 2009, I will proudly take the name that has always been mine. Hello world! Sarah Elizabeth has finally arrived. Better late than never.

Sometimes, in writing, the work takes on a life of it’s own. It insists on going its own way, no matter what you intend, and there is nothing you can do about it. Today is one of those times. This post wasn’t what I started to write, but it seems I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes events overtake you, and you are left to ponder them, and take from them what you will, for better or for worse. This past week was such a week.

In the last few days, we have all been spectators at a world event of epic proportions, if only because of the excess of everything involved. The passing of an icon, especially one as quirky and controversial as the King of Pop, was bound to bring about excess. But this was Princess Diana style excess, something I didn’t think I would witness again in my lifetime.

After the whole spectacle was over ten years ago, I remember wondering if anyone who participated in the orgy of grief over Princess Diana would look back and question their own part in the proceedings. [Brief digression here, but Elton John rewriting one of his most famous songs in tribute was one of the saddest moments in musical history, as far as I am concerned.] I wonder if anyone who participated in the excesses of this past week will look back on it in a similar way and question what drove them to be a part of the orgy of grief this time.

Personally, I think there is a phenomenon of mass grief that occasionally grips the world. It’s almost like every now and then, we have to have something to pull us all together, and remind us that we are all, at the very end of the day, people, and we are on this rotating ball together. Whether it’s the death of someone globally famous, or a worldwide tragedy like 9/11 or the tsunami, these world events make us all aware of how vulnerable we are, and how little control we really have over what happens to us. It’s as if, for a brief moment in time, we are all pulling in the same direction.

And it’s a sobering reality we must consider. If, with all his money and power and fame, Michael Jackson couldn’t control his fate, then what hope have the rest of us, who toil in obscurity for our whole lives?

Of course, we all experience these epic moments differently. For me, the first thing I thought of was not the death of the King of Pop, or even that a tortured soul will finally have some peace. I thought of his children, who are now left essentially parentless and alone in a rather frightening world that up until now, they have been entirely protected from. Having lost my own dad when he was just 50, and I was only 12, I quite naturally have a heart for the children, and my thoughts go out to them.

For his children, they haven’t lost an icon or a musical genius or even a far away hero. Their relationship with him was independent of the public persona, and it wasn’t wrapped up in his controversies or his dance moves. Whatever your opinion of him, he was their father, the only one they have ever known, and they are now without him. That is heartbreaking to me.

For most people under the age of 50, I’m sure Michael Jackson was always in the world. He started singing on stage when he was five, which means I was only three at the time. He was always out there, front and center.

It’s certainly hard to imagine the world of music without his influence over the last few decades. He was a catalyst for many of the most iconoclastic images of modern music. Everything from his moon walk to his glove to his ever changing skin and face were new, different, challenging to the way things have always been done.

Without his leadership, everything from dance to music video would be different. There is no denying that even at 50, he clearly still had the power to move, and we’ll never know how big his new tour would have been. But from watching the brief video taken during a recent rehearsal, it seems clear that Michael, the Performer, was still at the top of his game, and he would have put on an amazing spectacle of a show.

One of the producers of the upcoming show talked candidly about Michael’s motives in doing this tour. Money, of course, was the main driver, as his lavish lifestyle came at an unimaginably high price.

But there was another motive, and it was that motive which caught my interest, which suddenly, out of nowhere, made Michael Jackson human for me. He wanted redemption – he wanted to show not only his fans, but I believe more importantly, himself, that he was still the King of Pop, the popular boy. But it turns out he was really Peter Pan on Xanax.

I think, at the bottom of it all, he was still a little boy looking for love and approval, and he couldn’t even find it inside himself. That is an indictment, not of Michael, but of all the people around him who used him to line their pockets or enhance their own fame, without ever considering the cost to the heart and soul of the Lonely One.

When I am gone from this earth, there are really only two things that will matter in summing up my life. I think they apply to Michael Jackson, and everyone else, as well. Did you leave the world a better place than you found it? Did your contributions justify the rest of your existence?

Thankfully, I will never have to be his judge or his jury. I have made enough of a mess of my own life – I don’t need to be commenting on anyone else’s bad decisions or faulty judgment. (Okay, that is a comment, I realize, but I think it’s pretty clear that holding your baby out over a balcony is just stupid, and let’s not even get into slumber parties with children when you are an unrelated adult.) A jury of his peers acquitted him of his legal difficulties, and one of those who accused him of the most heinous acts has now recanted as an adult. It is entirely possible that the image of dollar signs blinded people into thinking that they could destroy what he dedicated his lifetime to building, without a thought for the real human being inside the bubble.

Michael Jackson was the Wizard in his own wacky Oz, an ever changing chameleon, a façade behind which hid an unknown personality seen only by a few insiders, if by anyone at all. Peter Pan may have been real after all, but we are left to wonder whether Michael Jackson was.

It is now left for the ages to determine his contribution, both to the world of music, and to the world generally. Michael Jackson has fulfilled his destiny, whatever it may be, and we can only hope that one of the more tortured individuals to ever walk on this earth is now at peace.

I think Michael Jackson’s fast burning life, over too soon, should serve as a warning call to every stage parent pushing their child forward to perform, or to excel, at too young of an age. When they are five, they should be performing on their front porch, not in Motown. When they are 17, they don’t need the adulation of a bazillion fans, they need the love and attention of their parents and the people close to them.

Although I am not much of a television watcher, and I am definitely not an American Idol fan, last year I couldn’t help but notice the show highlights, since the ultimate winner was from Kansas City. It was the battle of the two Davids, and I, for one, hoped that David Cook would win, not necessarily because he was better, but because the other David was so clearly in over his head with the fame and publicity and attention swirling around him.

The collapse of Susan Boyle shouldn’t have surprised anyone. A regular person thrown into the fish bowl of the super famous would have a hard time walking out the front door, to say nothing of performing in front of millions of fans who will be let down if you fail. I think the collapse of Michael Jackson, the person, was the outcome even he knew to be all but inevitable, given the highly public nature of the life of a man who was clearly a very private individual.

I also believe that we, the public, played a role in that breakdown. By trying and convicting him of everything imaginable in the court of public of opinion, we stripped him of his humanity and his dignity, and still we clamored for more. By allowing our prurient interest in everything celebrity to overcome our better judgment and common sense, we put the hammer to the wall.

As we all heave a collective sigh, we, the public, will move on with our lives. Whether you ate up every moment, or studiously ignored it, the untimely death of Michael Jackson at the incredibly young age of 50 was noticed by the world, and has made an impact on millions and millions of people. But like Princess Diana, for most of us, this was a moment of time in our lives, and meant nothing more significant.

But for his family, especially his children, and his friends, his absence will change their lives forever. I can only wish his three children a life of normalcy and mundane happenings. I hope they will find their name to be a blessing and not a curse. I hope they find peace within themselves, and forgiveness for their father for not being there for every important moment for the rest of their lives. I hope that their grandparents can get the dollar signs out of their eyes, and will take loving care of the living legacy that Michael left to them. They are the world he was talking about in his music.

But the cynic in me says they will be a commodity, just as their father was. We can only hope that they lead a brighter life than the supernova they called Daddy.

Independence Day....

Being yesterday was the Fourth of July, where here in America, we celebrate the independence of our great nation from the tyranny of taxation without representation, (leaving us all to wonder why the current system of tyranny with representation is somehow better, but I digress,) I got to thinking about what independence day really means. Not Independence Day, the holiday, but the independence days that come into our lives, bidden or unbidden, and allow us to set a new course, or force us to blaze a new trail, in our personal and professional existence.

Independence day is much on mind lately, because I am about to change my name back to the name I started with. Almost exactly 25 years to the day after I took the name of my new husband, I am going back to the old name that I will now wear with a new kind of pride. That will be a happy day for me, one I have looked forward to for many months, and I am anticipating it as a new beginning, a fresh start, freed from some of the events in my life that have held me back and kept me from moving forward.

It is symbolic, I suppose, in a way, to take back my maiden name. I will admit, I do feel it is sort of like taking back myself.

But it is more than that, for me. It is my own personal Declaration of Independence from a life that no longer fits, a world to which I no longer belong. And although that sounds like a negative reaction, on the contrary, for me, it feels like a positive step forward towards the life I now lead, and in which I am, by and large, pretty happy. The married me was sober and serious; that life was a hard path from start to finish. I am hoping the maiden me will be more lighthearted and easy going, not so much wrapped up in what is wrong, more focused on what it possible.

There have been a few independence days in my life, big and small, as there are for most people. There have been the life milestones - the first step, the first time I went to kindergarten and left Mommy behind, the first sleepover. There have been bigger days, too - high school graduation, for example, where suddenly, whether I was ready or not, there I was, an independent adult. Or at least, so the world was telling me. [I'll guarantee you my very own mother will beg to differ, but that's another story.]

I have had some very reluctant independent moments - my father's funeral, when at age 12, I was suddenly dealing with a grown up reality in a child's world, and the day my husband declared that he was done being married to me and walked away, leaving me alone to deal with the fallout of his single-minded decision. I'll admit, I didn't feel very independent that day, but it was the start of something big - the taking over of my own life, and although I didn't know it then, it was a moment of great independence for me.

The last few years have been very difficult in my world. Divorce is a hard thing to go through - be it a nation from it's parent or a wife from her husband. The breaking apart of a family, and the reorganization into something new, hopefully something more functional, but definitely something different, is a painful process.

As a country, we are still a teenager in the eyes of the world. We are brash, self-absorbed, demanding, and often rude to the older, more experienced nations that used to lead the way. But at the same time, we are innovative, fresh, and free of some of the constraints that hold them back and keep them from being everything they can be.

As I approach my own day of independence and freedom, I hope that I, too, can reorganize my world into something fresh and new and beautiful and exciting. It is a challenge, but like most of my countrymen, I think I am up to the challenge.

Happy Independence Day America! And happy independence day to everyone who is experiencing their own personal renewal, whatever it may be. Sparkle a little with me!

Going home again....

There is an old saying, you can't go home again. That is obviously untrue, since I am writing this little post while sitting in the bedroom I grew up in. And it looks pretty much the same as it did when I was seven. Meaning blue ruffles and lace, and an antiqued dresser that my mom painted for me when I was little.

Of course, the cliche isn't referring to a place. It is really about a state of mind. And perhaps it is true that you cannot return to your childhood. But would you really want to?

My childhood was not a bad one, as childhoods go. I grew up on a farm, outside of a tiny little town where everyone knew everyone, and probably your grandparents as well. When you did well, the entire town rejoiced with you. When you screwed up, the entire town knew about the family disgrace. While it can be embarrassing to have everyone knowing your business, it can also be comforting to know that everyone cares when something goes dreadfully wrong.

A farm life is not an easy way of making a living, and I worked hard as a kid, like every other farm kid. Seeing hay being baled in a field still makes me tired just thinking about it.

But it wasn't all work, either. I got to drive a tractor when I was barely old enough to reach the pedals, and mowing the lawn involved a riding mower that you could pretend was a car you were driving around. We learned to make our work a part of the play, so it wasn't as hard as it might seem from the outside looking in.

Part of the work was to feed the animals, of course, but at the same time, we also got to see animals being born. We had to feed the horses hay and oats and water, and we had to brush and groom them, but we also got to ride them whenever we wanted to. We bottle fed calves, and mucked out barns, it is true. But we also got to make forts out of hay bales, and had a rope swing in the haymow that we could ride from one side of the barn to the other.

Hard work came with some compensations, and from the garden we got fresh carrots and peas and sweet corn and beans that tasted sweeter than anything you will ever find in any store. We went organic long before it was a trend - manure on a farm is plentiful, and free for the asking. I actually carry inside my head what kinds of manure are best for growing plants, and which kind will burn them up. That kind of knowledge comes from life experience, and it can't be bought, let me tell you. Not that anyone is in the market for it, but I'm just saying....

For farm kids, when the work is done, the play begins, and it is exciting. For one thing, we had more space than most kids could ever dream of. We played FBI agents following the criminals, hiding in buildings and pretend driving the tractors and other farm implements. We played sales clerk at the hardware store and modeled and did everything in between. There is never a moment to be bored on a farm, not only because if you are, an adult will definitely find something for you to do, but also because there is always something fun or interesting available to do.

One of my happiest memories was riding my horse to the far outside reaches of our pasture, and then letting him stand there and rest while I laid on his back and read my book. I would bring a little snack or a drink, and it was heaven. I have rarely, if ever, been as at peace anywhere else in my life, as I was in the pasture with my horse and a book.

I grew up with tree houses and newborn kittens and gravel roads and granaries as a part of the landscape, and I don't regret a moment of it. I was a very fortunate child, I think, because instead of city streets, I had country roads. Instead of schedules and play dates I had bike rides and neighbor kids and sitting on the roof of a chicken coop. It may not sound glamorous, like dance lessons and soccer practice, but it was fun and free and taught me a lot about what is important in life.

I didn't want the hard life of a farm wife when I grew up, and I very intentionally shunned any situation in which that would have been a possible outcome. But it sure is a nice place to visit, even if I don't live there any more.