What Family Means. Geri Krotow
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Shirley didn’t buy it.
“There are many ways to celebrate life and our families,” she said. “But scrapbooking gives your children a history to draw from.”
She was the most vocal of our group, which I’d started almost a dozen years ago. Not one local election passed that Shirley wasn’t involved in, and she took up what, in my opinion, were some pretty odd causes. However, I had no argument with that as long as I wasn’t one of them.
I swallowed a sigh.
“I do celebrate my family, Shirley. We have great dinners whenever we can, usually on Sundays. Angie just moved back to town. Blair and Stella are finally talking babies, and Brian is successful.”
I didn’t mention that Will was angry at me for being too involved with the kids. Nor did I bring up my suspicion that Angie had come home to Buffalo to distance herself from her husband. That I thought Blair and Stella were approaching their attempt to start a family more like purchasing a new car. Or that I worried that Brian was too driven in his architectural career to ever find a soul mate, much less have a family.
“Deb, you’ve got to admit that none of us have had to fight for our husbands or family like you.”
Shirley referred to the fact that I’m white and Will is black. It’s not as big a deal today. When we first met over fifty years ago, it was more than a big deal. It was a showstopper as far as relationships and marriages were concerned.
I pulled out my car keys.
“Of course we had some hard times,” I said. “But at least I’ve known Will since we were both kids. He’s been a part of my life forever. Not many spouses can claim that.”
I didn’t want to examine the volcano of emotions that threatened to erupt at just the idea of looking back at our past. Our present was the best yet for Will and me. I didn’t want to mess with it.
I wouldn’t mess with it.
“Come on, Debra, it couldn’t have been easy back in the sixties and seventies.”
No, but Paris made it all possible.
I acknowledged the errant thought but didn’t share it with my friends. It was too private. Paris was the time in our lives that sustained Will and me through the storms that awaited us.
“No, it was never easy. But my kids have grown up in as normal a world as I could hope for. None of them seem to have suffered. In any event, I see no point in putting myself through any of those emotions again.”
Shirley shook her head and picked up her knitting.
“I hear you, Deb, but I still think you’d gain a lot out of recording your life for your kids and your future grandkids.”
I smiled.
“You may be right.” I shrugged into my coat and offered my best smile to the group. “See you next week. Call me if anything really stumps you.”
They often asked me for help with their knitting, since I was the only professional knitter in the group.
I loved them because we shared so much more than knitting. But this morning the sharing cut too close….
These women were special to me because they loved me for me. They knew I was a “famous” fiber artist but accepted me as one of them. A woman with a family she’d fight to the death for.
The wind that greeted me as I exited the coffee shop was chillier than it’d been a half hour earlier. I looked up at the steel-gray clouds that seemed close enough to touch.
“More darn snow,” I mumbled to myself. Mentally I went down my to-do list: check on Violet, then spend the rest of the day in my studio preparing for my upcoming art exhibition.
I had just fastened my seat belt, hand poised to turn on the car stereo so I could listen to my favorite sixties station, when my phone buzzed again. Panic fluttered in my throat but was quelled when I saw the caller.
Angie.
“Hi, honey, everything okay?” I put her on speaker so I could back out of the parking lot.
“Um, yeah, I’m fine. How are you?”
Angie’s distracted tone didn’t alarm me. But her question about my well-being did. Usually her conversations were full of her latest career feats as a meteorologist, and her marriage to Jesse, the love of her life.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. What’s up?”
“Mom, can you meet me at the coffee shop this morning?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but I’m just leaving the knitting group. I have to go back home and check on Vi.”
“Is Grandma all right?” Angie’s voice rang clear and concerned over the car speaker.
“I think so. She’s not getting any younger, and she needs a little extra TLC every now and then.”
“Is it her heart?”
“Honey, it’s always her heart at this point.” I turned the key in the ignition—February in Buffalo felt like Siberia. The heater cranked up as I did my best to reassure Angie that Vi was likely okay.
“I really need to talk to you, Mom.” The little-girl tone was back.
“Angie, are you okay?”
“Of course. I just needed to talk. It’s been a huge transition for me, you know, Mom.”
“Yes, it has.” She’d moved back to Buffalo from San Francisco, what, only a month ago?
“Can you call me when you’re done with Grandma Vi?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart. Maybe we can meet for lunch.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Bye.”
I sighed and put the phone in the compartment between the large bucket front seats. I was so thrilled to have Angie home again. I just needed Brian to move here and I’d finally have all my chicks back in the nest—or at least near it. My family around me—everything I needed for happiness.
But that was before I knew Angie had decided to make her move alone, while Jesse was deployed to Iraq with a civilian surgical augmentation team. Before I realized that Vi’s congestive heart failure was changing from chronic to acute, needing to be monitored daily.
Women’s magazine pundits called us the “sandwich” generation. Still raising or supporting our children and tending to our aging parents.
I silently counted my blessings as I put the car in gear. Gratitude was my antidote to the despair that could overwhelm me when I least expected it to.
First, all our children were economically independent. Second, they all had good careers and two out of three had chosen loving partners. Third, Violet was financially taken care of, with the best possible medical care.
And most important, I had Will.
Present Day
Buffalo, New York
“HEY, HOW’S IT GOING?” Angie Bradley slid onto the stool next to her younger brother Blair’s at the breakfast bar. He and his wife, Stella, had refurbished this downtown loft apartment three years ago, as newlyweds.
“Are you hungry? I’ve got plenty of oatmeal left.” Stella smiled and Angie let the flash of her perfectly straight, white teeth send their happy energy her way. Stella was a pediatric dentist and her own smile was her best advertisement.
“No, thanks.”
Stella’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure? I even have real maple syrup.”
Angie laughed.
“No, thanks.” That was just like Stella, to remember that Angie liked the real stuff, not some flavored corn syrup. But her