Joys 1977

In October 1977 when I wrote about, and cried over, losses (see previous post), I continued writing and expressed joy. The next page of that old journal begins,

What a rich, special childhood I had!

May 5, 2020, is the anniversary of my mother's birthday. How fitting that I can share this remembrance now.  Janet N. Cutler was born on May 5, 1912, and lived to almost 64. She came to Danvers in 1940 to marry my father. They started married life in a small rental house on Nichols Street, just across from the large Locust Lawn property. They'd been house-hunting elsewhere, but hadn't yet found what they sought. So, on a temporary basis, they moved into that little cape. Lucky for me, they stayed. I, born three years later, was able to grow up with grandparents next door, and acres of woods, fields and streams nearby.

Here's the final page of my journal entry written on October 5, 1977:

What a rich, special childhood I had! The land and plants and wild birds and animals were so much a part of it, thanks to my mother. She taught me so much about nature and conservation and appreciation of life! That is a wonderful gift. She got such joy from the simple things – a bright red leaf, a fern fiddlehead, growing vegetables, a new wren in the birdhouse, etc. And my life is enriched by experiencing these wonders as she taught me to.

As a child I used to get tired of her exclamations to come see the cloud, or this leaf or that view. "oh Mommy!" I'd reply "it is just another leaf..." etc. I resisted her enthusiasm. But it came through whenever I was alone (at Putney, and now). 

Now my kids have to endure my endless cries of "Oh, look at that." I want to pass on that love of the beauty of nature. (Even though it carries with it the pain of watching "progress" spoil the beautiful land.)

What a joy tonight  to get in touch with this special gift  from my mother, after concentrating for hours on the hidden messages* I got from her, most of which were negative. I got lots of problems from her. I'm like her in so many ways. But fortunately the good came with the bad. I feel love for her now. And I like myself.

*See my Comment below for context about "hidden messages" and some examples. I did appreciate my mother during my youth. My comment in fall 1977 about problems referred more to changes I, as an adult, was attempting to make in some of my habits, and my realization that she had been, of course, the model for those habits. She had died in April 1976.

Losses 1977

In fall 1977, in California where I had lived since 1971, I enrolled in a seminar that caused me to look back at my childhood and think about early influences on my life. Thick notebooks from that "Inner Growth Seminar (I.G.S.)" – filled with my notes, assignments and journal entries – have lain dormant in storage for decades.

Now, with time on my hands because of the coronavirus shutdowns and stay-at-home orders, I've opened old boxes and reviewed the contents to sort out what might be tossed or kept.

Here's a relevant excerpt from my journal, written on October 5, 1977:

I have just written my IGS homework, and then 1 1/2 hours of uninterrupted 'brainstorming' of childhood memories. I started writing down clues, fragments, scenes – anything that came to my head – just to get it down for future reference. No judgment, no thoughts about my parents, just my memories. What can I see? What did I do? Where & how did I play?  The memories are coming faster than I can write. My hand is cramped. One pen has run out of ink & I'm using up a 2nd!

Tears came as I wrote about the Delhi farm. I wish I could go back there. It is so special to have memories like that. Why do these places have to leave the family?  I am sad that my kids can't play there as I did. 

Locust Lawn is spoiled, cut by Rte 95.
My old yard is overgrown, changed.
The big old barn was demolished.
The woods were cut down.
Granddaddy's house and the playhouse are gone or sold.
Delhi is sold.
Pine Knoll burned. The land is for sale.
Kermit's house was moved.
The 1-room schoolhouse was torn down after my 1st grade.

I'm really crying by now. I have remembered these places so clearly tonight and feel the loss. 

What will my kids remember? I feel sad that they do not know the woods + fields + meadows + big old barns + old family houses I played in. 

Tonight –just for tonight– I wish the world had not changed. I want to go back & play in those streams along Nichols Street.

All but one of those losses were in Danvers.

"Delhi farm" refers to an old dairy farm in the Catskills of New York. My mother took us there at least once a year to revisit the places she had loved as a child, spending summers on her grandfather's farm, which his father (James MacDonald) had started in 1850. That property was sold in 1972 after the last of the MacDonald sisters died. End of an era. Memories and photos remain.

For Danvers memories, I created this blog in 2007, thinking that I  – as a"new" writer in a Senior Center's writing group –  was writing for the first time about my Danvers childhood.  Ha!  I hadn't remembered the pages and pages I'd scribbled in notebooks in 1977.

Epidemics

For the past month I've had much time to read and reflect about epidemics. The "novel" coronavirus spreading and affecting so many people today is new and shocking, but if you step back and look at history, there is some comfort in the fact that we humans have survived MANY previous epidemics.

An article published April 3 in the Daily Hampshire Gazette (Northampton, MA), in a series titled "Readers' voices in the time of coronavirus," helped me gain this perspective. The author, Marcia Burick, describes her own experience getting polio during the polio epidemic that swept the country in the summers of 1951-1953.  Her article, Polio and the COVID-19 virus: Taking in personally, opens this way:

"There's never been anything like this before." Well, yes there has. The fear of serious illness, the randomness of it all, the mystery of why it happened, when will it ever end, will there be after effects? All this talk of ventilators and respirators, and the need to find more. For me, this triggered a memory from long ago, 66 years ago, in fact to September of 1953.

Oh, yes! In Danvers, in my childhood, polio was a scary subject. My parents were worried. Some of their friends were stricken. I especially remember one man who used to ski regularly with my parents, and then he was ill, and had to be in a wheelchair because of polio. I also remember lining up at school to get a "shot" - to be vaccinated against polio.

In my lifetime there have been several cycles of epidemics. The HIV/AIDS epidemic in the 1980's, when I worked at Stanford University, was devastating, killing some of my colleagues so quickly. It seemed we were going to memorial services every week. A big staff meeting was called to discuss how to stay safe, but so little (at that time) was known about the strange new illness that we were left with more questions than answers. Eventually HIV/AIDS became more understood and manageable. One of my favorite Stanford colleagues was able to survive many years after his diagnosis, and enjoy some time in retirement.

Here I sit, in retirement, sequestered at home and not knowing when or if I might become sick because of this new virus. On one level, it is scary. On another level, it is a peaceful time for reading, writing, walking with the dog, watching movies, and working on projects. I've become quite familiar with virtual meetings (via ZOOM, GoToMeeting, or other online tools), and I'm trying to be helpful to the community at large. This week, in my role as a board member of nonprofit Funeral Consumers Alliance of Western Massachusetts (FCAWM), I wrote a one-page document that we intend to distribute to front-line institutions (hospitals, hospices, nursing homes, etc.) to help them guide families who are dealing with deaths of loved ones. I've called it "Tips for consumers about funeral options during the Covid-19 pandemic."