Author: rosemarychristlerenaud

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Today I Need To Write


Recording an essay for a local NPR show.

Recording an essay for a local NPR show.

Today I have a need to write. My fingers won’t feel content until they are cruising across my keyboard. Sadly, my brain has no compelling issue I need to expel. So I am sitting here, at my computer perusing websites, waiting for that ding and the notice I have another email that will perhaps inspire me.
What is it about writing that allows me to feel a sense of accomplishment? A few years back I ran into a friend from my junior high (middle school) and high school days. I told her I was writing a story about my mother and me. She replied, “That’s great, you always did like to write.” I smiled but walked away stunned. I did, I thought. I then remembered the variety shows my sisters and I created. We gathered the kids in the neighborhood and gave them each a part in the acts we had spent days writing. I believe our programs were loosely based on The Laugh In Show. The stage was the open concrete parking area at the end of our neighbor’s drive. Our parents humored us, I suppose, by sitting in lawn chairs and clapping at the appropriate times.
I still have stored somewhere, the Christmas poem I wrote in seventh grade that won the school newspaper’s first prize. That was my first accolade for writing. I recall my high school teacher telling me my papers were always her favorite to read; much more entertaining than my fellow students dry essays. She also added I needed to watch my punctuation, a problem that still plagues me today. (Thank you inventor of spell and grammar check)
Consequently, I realized that my friend was correct. I have always enjoyed writing and as an adult I felt it was time for me to return to that love. I joined a writing class at East Line Books in my hometown. I was just beginning my journey with the care-taking of my mother as she slid into dementia. Every week I tapped away on my keyboard, thanking Mom for making me take a typing class. My emotions, held inside as I went through my week, poured forth and appeared in black and white on my computer screen. Often tears trickled down onto the keyboard letters as I discovered those feelings I had so carefully buried. The writing of the essays was obviously therapeutic. I continued with the classes over a period of two to three years. Eventually, some of the ladies I met at the book store branched out on our own when we realized our essays could materialize into book form. We would meet, not only to critique each other’s writing, but also offer support. My writing ladies, as I like to call them, have been generous with their friendship and encouragement.
The idea to blog came to me early. But, sadly I didn’t act on the notion until much later on my writing path. Blogging gives me a chance to express ideas, feelings, and thoughts in a very short form. I truly enjoy the thrill of having others comment on my essays, and I love gathering followers. How surprising for my thoughts to touch a stranger, enough so that they decide to comment or follow me. I somewhat understand an actor’s need for applause at the end of a performance.
All of these thoughts lead to today and my fingers feeling that they require movement over a keyboard. Today, when my thoughts, jumbled as they are, must come tumbling out and be placed for all to see in black and white. Feel free to comment, I love the applause.

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What Makes Us Friends?


birches13Once again, in celebration of the ski rental, there was a gathering of our good friends. The scene outside was one of beauty. The white, papery birch trees standing tall against the small fluffy snowflakes drifting down through the sky. Inside the room was warm and the laughter was raucous. It didn’t take much to get the group started down a path of bad jokes, and unruly behavior leading to snorts of amusement. It has often been said, people tend to get caught up in jobs, commitments, the rush that leaves us exhausted at the end of the day. Our group is no exception to that rule. Thus, it was nice to have this weekend to re-establish our priorities in life. Loyal friends bonded by the commitment we have developed over the years to each other. I know, and I believe my friends all know, that time and distance cannot break the bond that time and the distance we have traveled together has established. Not to take away from our blood families but this is a family too, the one we have chosen. These are the friends, who over the course of many years have established themselves to be there for you no matter the circumstance.
I wonder? Why do some people enter your lives and immediately become a best friend, while others drift in and out? Perhaps it is a common activity. This is certainly true for the core of this group. We met when our children all downhill ski raced together. There were many early mornings struggles of no coffee and sub-zero temperatures. Too often we encountered ice storms and dumps of snow as we crawled our way across the state of New York to get to a race. Weekends consisted of standing at the bottom of a ski trail and looking uphill waiting in anticipation for a lone figure to appear as it flew down a race course. The only thing between the racer, one of our children, and the mountain was a thin layer of spandex and a helmet. We held our breath trying to prevent a fall and exhaled as they came across the finish line. Evenings consisted of ski tuning and team dinners at an accommodating restaurant. Often it was adults at one table, racers at the next. Yes, we certainly bonded over the time we traveled together.
Yet, it has to be something more. Because over the years other racer families have drifted out of our lives while our group still manages to get together. Maybe our bond is because of common goals and beliefs. Politically we are a mismatched group. However, an even stronger shared conviction is our goals for our children. A good education, enough money to continue the lifestyle they enjoyed growing up, loving relationships and health. (We have had some struggles with the health, but that too seems to be making an upward trend.) I’ll admit those are pretty universal goals. Consequently, I think what draws us to each other is how we went about teaching our children to attain these objectives for themselves. Knowing that your child was safe and held to the same responsibilities, even if staying with one of the other families, was a comfort.
But, this past weekend we also included others who were not ski team parents. Still, the same power of friendship clings to all of us. In the end, the common bond must be our personalities; or perhaps, our mutual understanding of what being a true friend means. That definition being:
I want to share the joys of life with you. But, more importantly, I will stand by you when you are struggling, no matter if it is a struggle with children, health, death of a loved one or sickness. I will be the one to hold your hand, to lend a shoulder to cry on. I promise to cry with you when the pain is too much and make you laugh when your tears are finished. As your friend I will hold your confidences but shout out your accomplishments. At the end of the day, I only want to hear your laughter and see your smile and hope for many more years of friendship to come.
This, I think, is what draws our group and our fellow friends, who did not make the weekend, together and keeps us traveling down the road as companions.photo (12)

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Snow Fall Reflections


One of my favorite things: watching snow fall.
So here I am alone and quite honestly, enjoying the time. My companions are a glass of red wine, cheese and crackers, piano music and snow falling on the Adirondacks. I use to be afraid of being alone. After all, I grew up in a large family. I think I’ve actually only had a bedroom to myself my senior year in college. Doing activities and making decisions on my own has been a gradual awakening. Now, there are times I can spend hours writing at my computer and not notice I am alone.
Still, I realize that this is the eve of the anniversary of my mother’s rapid decline into her passing. It will be one year ago tomorrow that I got the call she was not doing well. Then, less than 48 hours later she was dead.
It is hard to say what I miss about my mother. Certainly not the last six years of her life when she slid into dementia. It is not a friendship, we never really had that. But, I think I miss knowing she was there. Comforted by the fact I could call for advice, laugh with her when we watched David Letterman together. I miss her presence in my life.
It is in this grieving moment that I sit in my beloved Adirondacks in a house I rented with the gift of a small inheritance I received from parents who somehow managed to put money aside and still raise seven children. I sit here watching the snow fall and thank Mom and Dad for this small gift that means so much to me.

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Me First


Re-learning how to put yourself first is difficult. I think most women, at some point in our lives, lose the initial reaction of me first and begin to experience concern about others. For many it is when we have children. But, it doesn’t have offspring, because of women’s instinct to nurture, we naturally put others first no matter the circumstances.
Lately, I have been making a concerted effort to allow myself to consider, what do I want to do? Or my new mantra is, No Guilt. With those thoughts in mind I planned a week for myself at the seasonal house we rented this winter. Even as I sit here and type I am surrounded by my fellow writer’s as we enjoy our first writer’s retreat. We gave ourselves a few days in which to enjoy the company of fellow scribes and actually sit and create for most of the day. While out our window, the beautiful Adirondacks lie snow-covered gleaming in the sun. It is pleasant to write and not be alone. I am enjoying hearing the click of my friend’s keyboards. Later, as we enjoy a night out for dinner I’m sure we will discuss what we have written. We will offer suggestions and constructive criticism. With each other’s encouragement we will keep moving ahead with our writing, forgoing other obligations and feel no guilt.
Later in the week I will be joined by two amazing girlfriends. The kind that know what you are thinking or feeling even before you do. We need some girl time; to reflect on our lives, to walk through issues that are troubling us, to laugh and build up each other’s spirits. Of course, more food than we need will be involved, along with adult beverages. I’m sure there will be long hours of talk and short hours of sleep.
Eventually, at the end of the week, husbands and other friends will join us for what we are calling our Hall Pass Weekend. A couple of days in which our group plans on letting loose with crude jokes, adult beverages, again too much food and much called for laughter.
In the end, I will have celebrated a week of letting go of commitments, worries, and pressure to put others before myself. A week for me.

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The Sound of Laughter


I have often found it interesting that an event, which at the time seems small, remains a big part of your life for years to come. I remember being home from college one vacation. I was playing cards with my sisters and friends. We were creating quite a ruckus with our laughter. At one point, I walked into the kitchen where my mother was cleaning up our mess from dinner. She looked at me and said,
“I love hearing you girls laugh. It brings me such joy.”
I smiled and nodded, maybe even gave her a hug; that would have been nice. But, it wasn’t until years later, with children of my own, that I fully understood my mother’s comment.
I too, love the sound of laughter. The melody of it can lift the lowest heart. One of the first times I recalled my mother’s words was on a camping trip. Our family often camps on the Island’s of Lake George in upstate New York. Most of the sites are very private, some sites you get a small island all to yourself. Yet, on a quiet night, as you sit around the campfire, laughter can be heard. It floats across the water, coming into your campsite like the notes of a beautiful song. I never mind the intrusion because the laughter is an indication of the joy surrounding us.
One of my favorite endeavors is when friends and family gather around the dinner table. It fills my heart with gladness to sit back and spend a few minutes listening to the conversation and joy taking place. I search out the smiles on the faces of those sitting with me. I always feel a wave of accomplishment wash over me and I congratulate myself for pulling all of these people together. I have created a night where worries and troubles are forgotten for just a few hours; an evening where fun is the only solution to the weary tribe around me.
Most recently I was reminded of my mother’s words over the past weekend. Word had gone out, on every news and weather channel, that a major snow storm was headed for the east coast. Consequently, the skiers among us felt compelled to make a mad dash for the house we had rented for the season near Gore Mountain. After our large multi-generational crowd had dinner the parents settled into the couches and the younger set crowded around the table to play games. As I sat there with my friends the laughter began to rise from the table. Suddenly, I was my mother. The sound of their giggles brought a thrill to my heart. I now fully understood the comment she had made all those years ago as she heard the laughter of her children. I, in turn, felt that same joy as I heard the laughter coming from my daughter and her friends.
My mother’s feelings coming full circle.

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Remembering February


For close to a year the month of February has been looming just outside of my conscious.  February 21, 2013 will be the one year anniversary of my mother’s death and the 12 year anniversary of my father’s death.   I have prepared myself to be sad.  But, what I haven’t prepared myself for are the down times leading up to that day.

On January first of 2012 I was celebrating the start of the New Year with friends.  We were at a bar having chicken wings and beer.  That was when I received the first call about my mother not doing well.  With the help of my sister Roxann, who flew in from Georgia, we spent nearly two weeks watching my mother slowly succumb to pneumonia.  Then, miraculously she pulled herself back from the brink of death.  Bewildered from what we had prepared ourselves for, Mom’s death, and reality, Roxann wearily went home.  As January faded into February Mom improved to the point where some days she didn’t need the oxygen.

scan0001One weekend in February, I visited Mom on a Friday.  I even took her picture to send to my sisters because Mom looked so good after her close call with death.  Unbelievably, that following Monday I was called by the nursing staff because Mom was once again ill.  The change in Mom over the weekend was startling.  I saw the look of panic in her eyes as she struggled to breathe.  With the help of the nurse practitioner, who prescribed, and then the nurse, who administered the morphine, we were able to ease Mom’s discomfort and fear.  I sat with her most of the day until she fell asleep.  I left knowing I would need to get many tasks accomplished before I began, once again, waiting with Mom for death to finally relieve her of her painful existence here on earth.

The next morning, as I prepared myself and my home for the long hours of sitting with Mom the nurse called.  Mom was worse.  Since Mom’s illness the month before, her children had resolved not to continue the brutal cycle of stopping the pneumonia, with antibiotics, only to have the illness return very shortly afterward.  We were committed to shortening Mom’s downward spiral towards death for her sake, instead of prolonging her dementia bound life for us.  But, I won’t lie it was difficult to see my mother laboring to breathe and the fear in her face.  I gave the nod and morphine was administered so that she could rest easily.  That afternoon the nurse practitioner told me this was it; Mom would not recover this time.  I called Roxann.  She made plans to return to Upstate New York.

As suddenly as Mom had become ill, she died.  She died before Roxann could arrive.  She died within 48 hours of my initial phone call.  No one on the staff, not even the nurses, thought she would die that quickly.  Yet, I had a feeling all of that day, because I sensed my dad in her room with me.  I understood that he had come to take her to their afterlife.

I remember many aspects of those long days in January and the few days in February that led to our extended family standing in a grave yard, once again sheltering against the biting cold winds of an Indiana winter.  It is with those days ingrained in my subconscious that I sometimes find myself crying for no apparent reason.  Why certain songs can turn a bright day into one of melancholy.  My conscious mind continues to check items of my list of tasks to accomplish.  I go to work.  I make dinner.  I admire the beauty of the winter blue sky.  I enjoy the company of friends, the stimulation of a good workout.  Still, I never know when or why the tears will come.  They just do.

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My Secret Snuggler


chattyI have a cat who is a secret snuggler.   Chatimec, named for a ski trail, has a snowy white body.  Strangely, his head and tail have brown stripes on them, except for the very last tip of his tail, which peaks through with white again.  Chattimec came to us from a shelter when he was about seven weeks old.  He is a skittish cat.  We have always been gentle with him, but somewhere he learned to be very cautious.

Although it is not obvious, Chatty is almost always in the room with you.  Despite his wariness he loves to be in the company of humans.  Sometimes, when I am working on my computer, Chattimec suddenly appears, as if from nowhere, and jumps onto my desk.  He plays with the pens, scattering papers.  Then he stands guard and stares out the window at the squirrels.  When I make dinner he sits in a corner of the kitchen to guide me in the preparation.  Chatty watches me with knowing eyes and blinks his approval of my ingredients.    Outside on the deck he will sit in the Adirondack chair opposite me while I read my book.  We are quiet companions.

If he is feeling in the mood Chatty will come close for a quick pet.  He will never approach you while you are standing, only when you are sitting.  He stays for a short time, insisting on having his head scratched by moving his body back and forth to put his head directly under your hand.  When he has had enough he saunters away.

Chatty and I have established a routine for the night.  He will sit nearby in the family room while I watch TV.  When I decide to go to bed I simply say “bedtime Chatty” and he is up to follow me.  Yet, he will not make it obvious.  He may linger at his food dish in the kitchen as I turn the corner for the stairs.  If I stop to check in with my husband who sometimes is in his office working late Chatty will hesitate and pretend to be interested in something on the floor.  As I go up the stairs he looks out the front door waiting for me to get to the top.  Only then, does he come up the stairs.  On some occasions he will follow me into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub while I brush my teeth.  If he is feeling frisky he may chase unknown objects around in the tub.  Most nights however, he sits at the top of the stairs, waiting.  He does not sit in typical cat fashion.  He lays the front part of his body across the landing, but the rear two legs hang over the first step and rest there.  No matter how long I take he waits patiently for me.

I know Chatty will sleep at the bottom of my bed but he does not want me to know this.  So I pretend to be oblivious.    He stays at the top of the stairs.  I put on my PJ’s, and hand lotion and finally turn off the light.  It takes me a while to settle in.  I must have the blankets tucked under my chin in a precise manner.  The bottom half of the bed has to be flat, with both the sheet corners nicely tucked in.  I move around, but eventually find a good spot.  With the lights out and me at last quiet, it is then that Chatty makes his move.  He stealthily comes into the room.  With cat precision and noiseless feet he alights onto the bed.  He settles in quickly.   If I sit up and try to acknowledge his presence he will stop in mid movement. His tail stiff in the air, one paw poised to walk, held in stride.   He does not like to be seen.  I have learned not say a word to him, but I smile quietly to myself.  It is a comfort to have a cat sleep by my feet.   I will not tell Chattimec that I know his secret.  He likes the comfort of snuggling too.

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Winter And All Of It’s Glory


I love winter.   When I walk outside, I am exhilarated by the wallop of the cold air on my face, and in my lungs.  I want to breathe deeply.  My skin tingles.   It brings me to life.

There are days in winter when the sky is a luminous blue. Your eyes are entranced by the contrast between the snow-covered pine trees, with hints of green, thrown up against a brilliant sapphire blue.  Ride a ski lift on a frigid, sunny day and take a look for yourself.   You will be awed by the magic of it.

As I child I anticipated winter.  Spring was fine, but summer was too hot.  Fall was getting better, cool days, brisk nights.  The tree leaves changing into their fall royalty.  But, every year I would pray for snow on my birthday.  Never realizing this would be a difficult task for mother earth, as my birthday is in October.

At an early age I watched the Olympic ski racers and my heart pounded.  I knew I had to try that sport.     I fantasized about the adventure of skiing.  I wanted to be on the slopes all day and feel the cold wind burn my face as I carved turns through the stately pines.  After an exhausting day, I pictured myself sitting beside a roaring fire, dressed in a trendy ski sweater, laughing with friends.  Who wouldn’t love that?

I anticipate snowstorms like a school age kid. I know the snow dance by heart. I religiously follow the Weather Channel, and feel I personally know Jim Cantore.  It is thrilling to me, when he is seen in Albany, NY, predicting a storm.  That means our part of the country will be blessed with the big one.    You will not see me running to the grocery in panic before a storm.  However, I will make sure I am stocked up on hot chocolate.  That way when I come in from my heady tromp through the snow, I can melt by the fire and enjoy a nice steaming cup.

To me there is nothing more beautiful than the world after a snowfall.  Everything is so clean and brilliant, like starched white shirts.  I am mesmerized when I see a big field stretched out in its blanket of snow.  It sparkles with diamonds in the sun.   The snow covered earth runs right up to the trees and helps display their leafless branches.  The branches reach out like arms and twist into wonderful shapes.  It is quite a beautiful art form.  Something you will not have the opportunity to enjoy in the summer.

When it is cold enough the ponds and lakes, even the rivers freeze over.   It is rare but there is nothing more enthralling than to see water frozen as it made its way down over the fall.  It is motion, literally frozen in time.  I know, to love winter and its beauty is not for all.  But, this year take a walk and you too may come to realize the wonder of winter.

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My Least Favorite Tradition


iiIn my mind there is nothing quite as lovely as a Christmas Tree.  The more lights the better.  I prefer my tree with multi-colored lights.  I think it lends a happier, light-hearted tone.  But, white lights give a Christmas Tree a quiet, stillness, like snow falling in the evening.  Either way I am mesmerized with the sight of a lighted pine tree.

When I was growing up in Indiana my family put our tree in front of one of the windows in the living room.  Each evening as you drove in the drive the tree smiled out at you, welcoming you inside to hot chocolate and homemade Christmas cookies.  To this day when I see a Christmas Tree in a window I get a warm glow from within.

Consequently, this time of year I feel melancholy because I know we need to take our tree down.  It is my family’s tradition to put our tree up on the Friday after Thanksgiving.  Yes, Black Friday.  When many others are fighting their way through crowds in the mall we head to our favorite tree farm, Ellm’s Family Farm.  A funny name for a farm that raises pine trees.  We board a wagon being pulled by a tractor and search the all familiar map hoping to find once again the area that contains the perfect tree.  Some years we freeze and battle the ice and snow.  Others, like this year, barely require gloves and we grew warm hiking in search of our prize.  The search takes a while because our group must come to a general agreement.  Over the years our collection of tree hunters has always included my husband and I and our two daughters, but some years we have cousins, grandmas, and lately boyfriends.  My husband enjoys being able to now hand the saw over to younger people for the annual cutting.  And he is happy he no longer has to pull the tree through the fields back to the trolley.

Once home we begin with our traditional mini hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls, accompanied by beef stick and cheddar cheese.  It is funny we now normally eat far more healthy than this, but traditions tend to stick and we have not been able to let go of this one.  The Christmas CD’s are loaded and play pushed, we are ready to begin.  Because the lights are so important to me, I string them onto the tree.  I start with small twinkle lights near the center of the tree then on the outer branches I put larger lights.  This illuminates the whole tree and causes it to glow even with competition from other lights.  Last we hang the ornaments.  They are a haphazard assortment, but every year they resonant their splendor causing me to rethink my thoughts of a themed tree.

As my youngest daughter does her final tradition of placing the star on top we all step back and admire our work.  One of my favorite things to do is to sit in the room with the lit tree and admire the warming glow and the wonderful scent of the pine.  When the girls were younger my husband traveled frequently.  Each year, on one night, during the month of December, when he was away, the girls and I would sleep under the tree.  I was like a kid receiving her most sought after gift every time I rolled over and saw those shimmering lights.  I would fall back to sleep giddy with my view and a huge smile on my face.

Every year I fall in love with my Christmas Tree and every year I dread taking it down.  I spend as many evenings as possible absorbing the glimmer from the lights.  But, it is now January.  The holiday season has come to an end.  I figure I can squeeze just a few more nights of Christmas Tree gazing in before the inevitable happens and I have to un-decorate my master piece.

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A Tiny Rosebush


86th BirthdayI was in the grocery checkout line picking up some last-minute items for dinner.  It was Sunday and our first weekend of skiing and trying out our new seasonal rental was coming to a close.  I was tired, but feeling good with all of the fresh air and renewed friendship that had transpired over the past two days.  As I was piling my items onto the belt something to my right caught my eye.  I turned and there in front of me were miniature rosebushes, the kind you see this time of year in the stores.  In that instant my mood fell and I began to cry.  Not big sobs but my eyes welled with tears.

A tiny rosebush, similar to this one, was the last gift my sister Roxann and I gave to our mother before she passed away last February.  A small token meant to provide comfort and perhaps help guide her way to heaven.  At least that was a tale we had heard.

When my mother died, I was more than ready for her to leave this earth.  She had been struggling with dementia for years and had spent the last six of them either living with me or near me.  During those years I was the one who watched, almost daily, as she slid into dementia.  Consequently, I knew she was ready and most of her children agreed, that her struggle with this life should end.  After she passed and the initial exhilaration of having more free time ran out, I found myself grieving for the mother I once knew.  I grieved for the mother who taught me to cook as I stood in a chair in the kitchen stirring tomato soup.  I grieved for the mother who found her calling working with students as a teacher and counselor.  I grieved for the mother I had hoped I would connect more with me as an adult, but we never quite got there.

Grief is a funny thing.  You can be enjoying yourself and the next moment, because of a song, or a scent or a rosebush, your mood changes and you find yourself sad and crying.  Causing those around you to worry and question what has just happened.  These moments also make me, at least, realize I am not doing as well as I thought; that my recovery over the loss of my mother will continue to take time.  Memories remain with us for our lifetime, both the good and the bad. But, I hope, with time, my sadness will wane and my memories will become more of gladness as I remember the special moments my mother shared with me.