Larry’s 50th Anniversary Thoughts – 9/5/2015

I recently went through the photos of our 50th anniversary and created a video of the celebration and party. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qeuEBcKPNXg

I also found the audio recording of the ceremony. I have now transcribed each of them, and I'll share them with you for the next four weeks, starting with Larry's.

When I was growing up, I didn’t realize what a fabulous family I had. Lorna clued me in on this when she joined it. Not just my parents, who were wonderful, but the grandparents, the aunts, the uncles, the cousins. It was a family where everybody liked each other, and everyone wanted to be together. Kind of amazing, and family meant everything.

My grandparents, Tom and Olive Collins, set the tone. They were North Dakota farmers. They had six children, four boys and two girls. When my dad was eight (he was the youngest), he’d had pneumonia twice, and the doctor said he would not survive another North Dakota winter. So, in the winter of 1925, they literally sold the farm (they were farmers), loaded everyone, including grandfather Halliday, into a Model A Ford and Chevrolet touring car, and they drove from North Dakota to California because it was warmer. Why? Because that’s what family did.

Crossing Texas

Family dinners were the glue that held us together for a long time. It doesn’t mean communication always worked. Collins men tend to be somewhat clueless. Lorna can attest to that. Kim can, too.

For example, in 1926, the family was enjoying dinner. The oldest son, Clark, said, “Mama, tomorrow you’re going to lose your baby boy.” Granny said, “Why? Are you going somewhere?” He said, “No. I’m getting married.” In twelve hours, Granny had organized the garden wedding, enlisted the local pastor because a justice of the peace just wouldn’t do, and cooked the dinner for all the guests who attended. And Lura joined the family.

With Granny, there was no such thing as in-laws. If you were there, you were family. In fact, it was really hard for a stranger to tell who was family and who were in-laws. You really couldn’t tell when you came to visit.

Until my grandfather died, every Sunday after church, the whole family met at my grandparents’ house for dinner. Now, you have to remember, this was six kids, their spouses, their children, and any friends who showed up, plus anyone else who happened to wander by. There were forty-to-forty-five people there every Sunday for dinner.

Granny was a fabulous cook and she loved doing it. In later years, we had to convince her to go potluck. From then on, we did, but always at their house.

They were married for sixty-three years. I was ten years old at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. It was so big it made the newspaper―a half-page spread with pictures. Of the six kids, five were married, four were married longer than sixty years, and Clark and Lura were married for more than seventy years. There were a lot of anniversary celebrations and other events.

Tom & Olive’s 50^th Anniversary – Clark, Francis, Wanda, Olive, Tom, June, Wayne, Murl

At those Sunday dinners, I remember singing. If the guys weren’t playing poker for matchsticks in the other room, the boys sang. A friend of Granny’s said, “All of Ollie’s boys can sing.” They sang four-part harmony around the pump organ.

My folks carried on the tradition of putting family first. On weekends at the mobile home in Dana Point, we all got together and ate dinner. My folks, Murl and Letha, celebrated their sixtieth anniversary right downstairs where we’ll all be in a few minutes. We had a wonderful party for them. They were married sixty-seven years, and they loved each other every single day.

60^th Anniversary – Letha and Murl

So, for Lorna and me, at fifty years, we’re kind of loping along. We have a way to go to catch up, which we plan to do. We had a family who showed us the way to do it, for which I am eternally grateful.

Next week: Lorna's thoughts

Saying Goodbye

Early this morning, I received the following message from my oldest and dearest friend’s husband: “After a month-long illness, Kathleen entered eternity early this morning at Huntington Hospital. 75 years 9 months.”

I was two-years old when we moved into our brand-new house in Alhambra, California. This was post-WWII housing, and nearly all the new owners were families with young children. Throughout our growing-up years, we never lacked for playmates!

Several of the kids on the block became my close friends, but over time, Kathleen Murphy became my very best friend. (She was always called Kathleen. She would not answer if you called her Kathy.) She was two years older, but it never made any difference. When I was ten, we became blood sisters. (We both had younger brothers and wanted to have a sister.)

My 16^th birthday

Her dad worked nights. We rarely played at her house for fear of waking him. So, she spent a lot of time at my house. My mother treated her like another daughter.

School was always difficult for Kathleen. She was dyslexic, and reading was a challenge. We went to college together and took a couple of the same classes. I took notes, and we would discuss the class material driving to and from school because we carpooled. She passed those classes and gave credit to our discussions (and my notes she borrowed the night before tests).

One of the greatest joys in my life was when she called me one day. Her husband had purchased our book, The Memory Keeper, and it had arrived in the mail. She decided to take a look at it. She called to tell me—in great detail—how much she enjoyed it. This was the very first book she had ever read for pleasure. She went on to read all of our books, and she enjoyed them. She asked for other recommendations, and I suggested she try my friend Marilyn Meredith’s mystery series. (She has written two.) Kathleen loved them and read every one. She went on to discover other writers she enjoyed, and recommended them to me. That first conversation with her made all the effort of writing worthwhile for me.

In high school, we ate lunch together every day and made many of the same friends.

My husband, Larry, started kindergarten with her. On their graduation day (two years before my own), she sat next to him, and he held her hand because she was so nervous.

When we were both in high school, we sat at the table in my house drinking tea with my mom. She often used her china tea set. We were talking about our dreams for our future. Mine was simple: marry Larry Collins, whom I was dating at the time. Kathleen described a family of several children, the large, elegant house she would live in, and all the expensive things she’d have. When she left, Mom said, “I hope she marries someone rich.”

She met Bill Stewart when they were both in the wedding party for mutual friends. The next day, she waxed poetic about this guy. I’d never seen her so excited about any previous boyfriend. She married Bill in June of 1966, nine months after Larry and I. She was my maid-of-honor, and I was her matron-of-honor.

Our wedding, September 4, 1965

We were both stay-at-home moms for a number of years. We got together for lunch every month or so at one or the other of our homes. We lived away from California for a couple of years, but we stayed in touch. She and Bill even came to visit us in Illinois—and stayed at the motel next door. We later discovered it belonged to Al Capone’s brother and was being used for gambling and prostitution. They never visited us away from California again!

One day, she invited my mom and me to visit at her new home in San Gabriel. When we arrived, she showed us around the house. As we sat in her lovely and elegant living room, Mom reminded her about our long-ago conversation. “Well, it looks like all your dreams have come true.” Mom was happy for her.

She adored the house in San Gabriel. She loved her neighbors and the boys’ school. She also loved her job at the school. She lived for her kids and their friends.

Bill wanted to move to San Marino, a more prestigious neighborhood. Each time he raised the issue, she came up with some reason they couldn’t sell—yet. I remember some of them.

Early on, she insisted they had to remodel their kitchen. “Remember, dear, kitchens sell houses.” They were torn up for months during the remodel. Then, when it was finished, she had another reason they couldn’t move. “We’ve spent so much time and money on this remodel, we deserve to enjoy it awhile.” So, they stayed.

Over the years, she remodeled the playroom, billiard room, other areas, and, finally the pool house to add a second story. She also insisted they couldn’t move until the boys had graduated from high school. “Dear, we don’t want to make them change schools and take them away from their friends. Don’t you agree?” And Bill agreed.

Finally, he wanted to move to a huge new house in Altadena, and she gave up the battle. She loved the new house—especially her garden. She won several awards for her gorgeous property.

In later years, she developed COPD and diabetes. They took a toll on her health. She became unable to walk and got around on a motorized scooter. One of the highlights of our fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration was when she arrived. Bill had made the effort to get her—and her scooter—all the way from Altadena to Dana Point for the party.

Our 50^th anniversary party with Bill & Kathleen

Not long afterward, she had surgery to put artificial blood vessels in her legs from her groin to her feet to try to improve her circulation and prevent their amputation. (Who knew this was even possible?) It was a grueling surgery, and the recovery was arduous.

Larry and I went to see her in the hospital once she could have visitors. I had a small flower arrangement made using one of my mother’s precious teacups—the same ones we had dunk from growing up.

Mom’s Teacup

When we arrived, she was at her lowest point. She insisted she wanted to stop all treatment and give up. I didn’t argue with her. It was her life, after all. But I asked if we could pray with her. Larry and she and I held hands as I told God I wasn’t happy about her choice, but asked for wisdom on the part of her doctors and peace for her.

As we left—both of us in tears—Larry commented on how strong her grip had been.

I told Bill about our conversation, and the next day he let me know her attitude had turned around.

Two weeks ago, when I spoke with her in the hospital, I reminded her of our conversation and about how much she would have missed. In the interim, her younger son, Paul, and his wife became the parents of Maxine, named after Kathleen’s mother. This little girl looks like her grandma, and has a similar personality. Stubbornness is a common trait.

Kathleen and Maxine about a year ago

In addition to her other two grandchildren, Dylan and Meghan, Maxine was the center of her life. (She wanted Mom’s teacup to go to Maxine. I have promised her that when we can get together, we will have a tea party at my house, and I’ll tell her all about her grandmother.)

Family always came first. She lived for her boys and their friends and their families.

She remained a faithful friend throughout the years, and I shall miss her greatly. But mostly, I am grateful to have had her in my life.

Surviving a Pandemic

To use the word “surviving” regarding the current pandemic while living in a large, beautiful home near the beach with a waterfall in the backyard is a gross  misrepresentation of my current situation. Actually, our lives have changed very little in the last few months. We write and I edit. We do this at home, even during “normal” times. Instead of eating in restaurants, we have been ordering meals delivered from our favorite local places. We want them to be here when we can feel comfortable about going out again. (We’re not there yet.)

I do miss seeing my friends in person. I miss being able to hug people. I miss attending church. I miss taking long walks at the marina. However, for my safety and that of people I care about, I will be doing none of these things for quite a while.

I will continue to connect with friends on Zoom, Skype, and by phone. Not the same thing as being together in person, but it works for now.

I was not alive for the 1918-1919 Spanish Flu pandemic, but my husband’s great-uncle died in the second wave in the late fall of 1919. His family was greatly affected. Larry’s dad’s cousin came to live with his family when their grandfather died as well.

In 1957, Larry attended he Boy Scout Jamboree at Valley Forge. Nearly every attendee contracted the Asian Flu—boys and adults. They left the jamboree and spread this disease throughout the country. This was the second pandemic of the twentieth century.

Polio was the third. A classmate, Al Ferguson, is currently writing his memoir. He gave me permission to share his experience with the polio pandemic with you.

My sister, Betty, was learning classical piano. She couldn’t play without sheet music. She got angry with me when I ran by and snatched her sheet music from the piano, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Often, she evened the score, though. It was all in fun as we really cared about each other.

When she was six years old, Betty came into the front room one summer afternoon using her favorite baton as a cane. I had seen her play that way a few days earlier. Mom told her to put the baton away and get ready for dinner.

Betty didn’t do it, and I remember Mom being stern. “Betty Jill, go put that baton away, and come to dinner right now.” Becoming frustrated with her, Mom took the baton away, and Betty fell on the floor crying. I don’t remember much from when I was ten years old, but I remember this day. The ensuing days are foggy.

I remember going to White Memorial Hospital in L.A. with Betty and my parents. The doctors informed them that Betty had polio. If I close my eyes and think about it, I can see the tears on Mom and Dad’s faces, which I had never seen before. We sat in the waiting room while the doctors took more tests. We heard Betty scream as they performed a spinal tap on her. Mom was crying and Dad consoling.

After all these years, it is something I will never forget. I can almost hear her screams now.

Our family now stood on the threshold of an unknown, lifelong struggle. Sleepless nights and uncontrollable crying became our norm. Polio, an entity whose only purpose seemed to be the destruction of a young life, became our constant companion.

Betty’s polio was confined to her left leg. She began a strict regimen of exercises day after day, year after year. We had several hospital-style hot packs. We took turns applying them to her leg. In those days, there were no microwave ovens, so we had to boil the hot packs in a pot of water on the stove. When they were hot enough, we removed them from the pot with tongs, placed them in a towel, and then rolled them up to keep them hot. Then we covered her left leg with them. Once her muscles were loose, we took turns exercising her leg and foot by pushing on her foot to stretch her Achilles tendon while she lay flat on her back. Afterward, we applied lots of lotion to keep her skin from drying out.

Then, there were the leg casts. Lots of them through the years. They stifled her leg growth by about twenty percent.

Betty became used to the rough regimen and went along with the program. No doubt about it, this was rough on everyone, but mostly Mom. She’d had a tough childhood, which had made her really strong.

Betty missed a lot of school, and, being home all the time, developed a love of books and playing her piano. She caught up with her grades, eventually graduating from high school.

She married her love and moved to Phoenix, becoming head of the medical library at Good Samaritan Hospital. Betty and Tim never had children, but they each had their own airplanes, and Betty became president of the Arizona Pilots Association for one term.

Years went by where Betty became more sedentary, and the lack of exercise finally got to her. She passed away at sixty-five after Mom had died. Thank God, as Mom would have died from guilt and depression. Miss them both.

I have known several people who also recovered from polio, but they continue to experience problems directly related to the disease.

So, comparing the current situation is far cry from earlier pandemics as long as we all take the necessary precautions. Staying home, wearing a mask when out in public, and staying six feet apart are hardly the same as watching family members suffer and die or caring for family members as Al did.

I am very grateful to be living today when everything we need can be delivered safely to our doorstep, I am thankful we have work to keep us occupied. I appreciate being able to call and talk with friends and family. I appreciate social media where I can remain in contact with my broader circle of friends.

You won’t hear me whining!