Category Archives: Family

Emotional Health, Family

Chapter 29 My Berra (from The Cemetery Wives)

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29 MY BERRA

In celebration of Christmas week, I offer you a rare mid-week post, Chapter 29 taken from The Cemetery Wives, by Cherry Odelberg. Now available on Amazon as an ebook or softcover. The Cemetery Wives is a work of fiction. Chapter 29, however, is pretty much how it happened.

The seminary patrons had done it again! The last Tuesday of classes, the school paper, Kathive, came off the presses proudly displaying a black and white picture on the front page. The picture was of a ten-foot, fully decorated Christmas tree in the lobby of the president’s office. Close to one hundred wrapped gifts were stacked around the base of the tree. A plush teddy bear with a huge bow sat looking at the spectacle with large, warm eyes. “Students, are you married with children?” asked the caption. “Be sure and check your box for a ticket to pick up your numbered gift on Friday.” Jon was elated when he showed the student papertoCarriethatafternoon. Shequicklycaughthis excitement. Then, Abby leaned out from her place on Carrie’s hip and pointed, “Das mye berah. Dat berah for Abby. Hug.” She tried to mash the paper to her.

The Wednesday morning MOPS meeting was alive with rejoicing and celebration among the cemetery wives. Poppy Sue listened to their chatter with a knowing smile on her face – the type of smile that inevitably goes with Christmas secrets. In her morning announcements, she explained,

“There are some people, three or four families actually, closely connected to the seminary, who have made it a tradition to give a family gift to the seminary

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each year. As I said, these are families. They believe children and a secure family life are the backbone of ministry and the hope of our nation. These donors chose to give anonymously, sometimes through me to MOPS – that is where your MOPS reading library came from – sometimes through Luke’s Closet or the President’s office. These are the same people responsible for the highchairs in the student center. This year, they thought presents to the children might be nice.” Who knew whether Poppy Sue was the instigator, or maybe a combination of the women who volunteered at Luke’s Closet? Sally Bancroft clearly knew, but wouldn’t tell. The young mothers charged Poppy Sue and Sally with the responsibility of conveying to the anonymous families how excited and thankful they were. Again, just like Thanksgiving, there was a turkey for each family at the food pantry that afternoon.

By Thursday, Jonathan Bach had his numbered ticket. On Friday, he stood in the queue of sport coat and tie clad students to match his number. Thirteen shouldn’t be hard to find. Still, he had to ask for help from one of the ladies. After turning over a few of the packages herself without success, she said, “Let me check the list. What’s your name?”

“Jonathan Bach.”

“Bach? Like the composer?” She consulted a clipboard. “Oh here you are. The bear is for you. We clipped the number on the backside of the bow, to hide it for the picture the other day. No one turned it around.”

Jonathan was speechless. He could barely breathe out a thank you.

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THE CEMETERY WIVES

“Are you okay?” asked the woman. Jon collected himself.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” he said, “your daughters will prophesy.” She waited. “Last Tuesday night,” said Jon, “when Abby – she is 18 months old. When Abby saw the black and white photo in the student paper, she said, ‘that’s my bear.’”

“Mr. Bach, That’s a story that Mary Eileen and Vonnie will love to hear over and over,” said the woman. “Merry Christmas!”

And so, Christmas came to the beleaguered little Bach family. There was a new teddy bear for Abby. There was Christmas turkey with all the trimmings on the table. There were the little niceties only a creative and frugal woman like Carrie could provide; a new tie and matching pocket hankie for Jon, looking suspiciously like a dress Carrie made a few years back. There were hugs. There were tears. There were phone calls home to distant family. There were six more days to the end of the year in which to eat turkey leftovers. But there were no more weekly food pantry portions. Everyone was on Christmas break.

Family, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions

Go Go Power Ranger Mamas

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He doesn’t ask for much. Her grown children rarely do. So when a request comes through, she is usually happy to comply. She jumps at the opportunity. Her adult children are all independent, successful – and often give her more than she was ever able to give them during their growing up years. She hears from her youngest least. He is thoroughly autonomous though gracious and loving when she does get to interact with him. He’ll turn 30 this month. Mother and son are separated by more than a thousand miles. She has seen him once in the last 22 months and that was Mother’s Day. Typically, in the weeks preceding his birthday, she will text: what do you want for your birthday? Tell me something cheap and something expensive. He will answer. She will place an online order and he will text his thanks and surprise when the gift is delivered. Over the years these gifts have included anything from quarter inch monster cables to socks to trendy sport shoes to this year’s wood travel chess set.

She was sitting across the table from her roommate last night enjoying a late evening snack and a rundown of the day when the text came in.

Youngest son: Do you have any pictures of me in that power ranger outfit you made?

Now I ask you, what mom doesn’t have pictures? Hers have been stored in albums and shoe boxes in an old wooden toy box for the past 10 years as she moved around the region. Only recently has that wooden chest been unearthed from storage in a basement. For 10 years nobody but Mom needed anything from that chest.

Mom: Yes. How soon do you need it?  All old photos are in the teaching bench underneath the live Christmas Tree….

Youngest son: Jist send me a cell phone pic real quick!

(Real quick? Does he know what he is asking? It will take two people to lift the lighted, plugged-in, tree-in-a-pot down from its perch on the teaching bench. She knows. Already she has been through this process for one of her own memory projects, despite thinking ahead and insuring all photos were thoroughly tucked away – unneeded – before installing the tree).

Mom: We didn’t have cell phones back then.

Youngest son:  no like just take a picture of it haha

Youngest son: (attaches cell phone picture of his band mate / roommate as green ranger)

This is a picture of our guitarist! His mom made this, and I want to show him mine.

She shows the photo to her roommate. Without a word they rise, lift the tree from the riser and set it on the floor. She hinges back the lid and puts her hand on the most promising album. 

Halfway through the pages chronicling 1994 to 1997 she finds the photo, slips it out and snaps a picture and uploads to text.

Youngest son: that’s amazing thank you

She and her roommate sigh and finish sipping tea while the memories percolate. Her roommate is, after all, the pink ranger – and she is, to this very day a ninja – as is her brother.

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Family, Goals and Dreams, Holidays and Traditions, Music and Theatre, Relationships, Uncategorized

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

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The memories belonged to her. The memories were hers to keep. For a long time, she didn’t know that. Some of the memories were too wondrous to believe. Other memories were so painful she didn’t ever want to revisit them. She noticed that even with the wonderful memories came that twinge in the side, the catch in the breath, the knowledge that those good times were gone forever and would never return. So, because even the good times hurt; because she chose not to revisit the bad times – to ever think of them again; she boxed up those memories, labeled them, “do not open,” and stored them in the attic of her mind. 

Somehow, she thought she could no longer use the silver and gold and the good china simply because it was all packed up with the shattered crystal and the refuse of past relationships. It was a tangled mess. But there is a difference between untangling and unraveling. Once the years had run their course and she was healed of her unraveling, she began the untangling. She separated the paper roses and shards and discarded them. And she resolved not to be any longer robbed of the good memories. The good memories belonged to her. She was an active participant in those memories; not a passive, shriveled up defeated observer. There were memories of diamonds and rubies and stars and constellations and melodies and stages. There was snow and sleigh rides; warm beaches and plane rides. There were memories of small children and grown children and parents and grandchildren. And yes, sigh, there were memories of lovers and proposals – – and betrayals. 

“Only a friend can betray a friend, a stranger has nothing to gain (Michael Card 1984).”

When a friend comes close enough to be a real friend – to actually mean something to your heart – there is always the potential for pain. If not the pain of betrayal; then certainly, some day, the pain of loss.

And this was the year she decided to actively, intentionally unpack the memories; to savor the good memories. To experience joy. To be at Peace. With her past and with her future.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past Slide Show by Cherry Odelberg 2020. Smile At This Lovely Time of Year, written and sung by Cherry (Cheryl Shellabarger) Odelberg, Produced and Arranged by Harvey Schmitt. Recorded at WHS recording studios, Dallas Texas first released on Christmas With Jonah and the Wailers CD and cassette at Fellowship Bible Church, Dallas Texas circa 1995

Character, Emotional Health, Family, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions, Home and Hearth, Relationships, Spiritual Well Being

Why We Weep at Weddings

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We attended a wedding yesterday. Yes. We suspended our Saturday busyness and took baths in the vintage claw foot tub, dressed with care in garments chosen from the special events side of our closets –seldom used of late – and Zoomed in and attended the wedinar. It was a very early wedding for some of the guests. 9:00 AM Mountain Daylight time for those of us in Colorado. God forbid you woke on the west coast this morning and had to be washed and dressed and in attendance by 8:00 AM.

It probably seemed a late wedding for the principals who have known each other – known this was the one – for three years and who have been waiting, waiting for COVID19 to clear. Late or not, it was a beautiful wedding. 11:00 AM in Cambridge meant the bride looked fashionably appropriate in her street-length, flare-skirted, professionally tailored, white wedding dress and elbow length veil. The ceremony took place in a lovely, huge, Presbyterian church complete with pipe organ, vestments, linens and vessels of communion; and empty pews. Fortunately, both bride and groom are musically astute so they obligingly sang the congregational hymns. But most of all, the bride and groom are intelligent and wise. We loved them for their integrity. We applauded them for pulling this off in the midst of a socially distanced pandemic and in such a way that we could be invited and included- something that would not have been possible from a distance of 2,000 miles in more traditional times.

And we cried. Not because of Coronavirus and because these kids can’t have a regular wedding with hundreds in attendance. No. We cried for all the reasons guests usually cry at weddings. We cried because they are young and idealistic and have perfect plans for their lives. One of us is old and disillusioned and knows what too often happens to idealistic plans. So she wipes her tears and smiles and says in her heart, may theirs come to fruition! The other of us is still young and idealistic and listens to their vows with rapt attention and thinks, it finally happened for them. Will this ever finally happen for me? We listen to the bride’s parents extol her virtues. She is literary and loves to hike and camp. Sigh. She is a perfect woman. We weep. Like women of any age and any era we look over the groomsmen in Zoom thumbnails and try to decipher who is most eligible. In the plus column, we see that all have beards. Wonder of wonders, they are quoting C.S. Lewis in their wedding speeches. What riches! What intelligence! We have found our people! Briefly, we cry again for joy. Where have all the young men gone? We also see companions in the thumbnails; family members in the guestbook photo gallery. Ah, most of the wedding party have found their people and are surrounded by wives and toddlers. The best woman (aka sister of the groom) is planning her nuptials That is good! The world is unfolding as it should. And again, we weep.

Not one tear do we shed for social distance. We are happy to be invited and attend virtually. In no other way would it be possible to be present. We didn’t have to wait until cake was served. You can have your cake – and eat it too, and your popcorn or chips anytime you feel like it at a virtual wedding. You can run spontaneously to the kitchen for chips and juice to take communion with the un-crowd. I even answered a phone call from the other room.

So yes. It is August of 2020 and we went to a wedinar yesterday. We laughed. We were inspired and comforted. We wept. What makes you cry at weddings?

IMG-5714CherryAndreaFrederickwedding

Character, Emotional Health, Family, Health and Long Life, Uncategorized

What Massive Changes Time Has Wrought

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Let me tell you how time flies – how things change really fast. You see; it seems like only yesterday I was singing with friends in a Sweet Adelines quartette. It’s been eight years. Four years ago I was playing in a band. Four years ago my mother was still driving and walking and she and dad came to an outdoor band concert. That same fall, they drove three and a half hours to share Thanksgiving dinner at my post in the Needles district of Canyonlands. That was after knee surgery for my Mom and she was recuperating nicely. I didn’t even go back for Christmas that year. Instead, I drove from Natural Bridges National Monument to Durango to spend a few days with my daughter. By the time another year rolled around, I was meeting my parents in Monticello Utah to deliver a mobility scooter to my mother. Three years ago Mom was still driving. And she could still drive well. Dad would back the car out of the garage, pull it up by the ramp and Mom would navigate down the ramp with walker or scooter and step into the car. Dad would then load the scooter on the rack to the rear of the car and they were off. 17 months ago Dad had hip replacement surgery and we realized at that time Mom could no longer drive or live alone. We had to nearly lift her into the car. She sometimes got stuck in the bathroom. She died 15 months later after having been dependent for a year and bedfast for two weeks. Just last year I was living and working in Page AZ. Just last year we had no suspicion of Coronavirus. Just one year ago my son purchased my childhood home from my parents and embarked on a remodeling project-completely upgrading the existing 55-year-old house and finishing the basement and garage. Just last Thanksgiving, I drove to Durango to share Thanksgiving with my daughter in a threadbare and minimally furnished apartment. Three months later I became the roommate in that apartment and was almost immediately solitary due to Coronavirus. During these past four months my mom passed. My daughter returned to our apartment after two months of care-taking for my Mom. I am singing in a vocal group again – albeit virtually – and our apartment is more than adequately furnished.
What massive changes time has wrought. Changes, not just in my life, but globally. We will host Mom’s memorial service in early August but we will host it virtually – likely with greater attendance on Facebook Live and Youtube Live than can be achieved in a socially distanced church building. But through it all-whether online or in person-music-lots and lots of music. Times have changed massively. Our enjoyment and dependence on music for entertainment and comfort has not changed – only the method of delivery.

Emotional Health, Family, Music and Theatre, Musical resolutions

Music knows no age or genre

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I was working on recording a Father’s Day offering for my dad so I pounded away at the keyboard all morning trying to get the nuances of the old-fashioned gospel hymn just right. It must be relentlessly taxing on my roommate in such situations, I thought. After all, she is much younger than I, and an educated and trained musician in her own right.

Somewhat wryly I smiled, “Old church music! If they only knew; sounds like ragtime straight out of a barroom, doesn’t it?”

“It’s perfect,” she said, surprising me with her reply. I had forgotten she is an anthropologist. “It was upbeat, stylish, action-packed, bouncy, full of energy – just what every generation wants from their music.”

True music is ageless and knows no genre. It is us – the linear generations- that place restrictions and prejudices; we who say, “that’s folk, that’s classical, that’s religious, I don’t do old stuff.” Ridiculous! Music always and forever will be an outcropping of the soul. It may be a mathematical formula or a stream of consciousness; an opera or a rap; but first and foremost it is spiritual – an outward expression of what is within.

 Meanwhile, I continue to chip away at a larger project: Mom’s memorial service. We want to do it right. It was she from whom we got the music. It needs to be upbeat, stylish, full of energy. And of course, it will be very mid-century Christian. I debated aloud about assigning my younger son a part. All my children are musicians but the youngest is the one who parleys in the hardened vocabulary and angst of his generation on punk stages and in dusky bars four nights a week. Would he stoop to old-fashioned gospel? Sadly, I was projecting the embarrassment and rebellion of my own young adult years on him.

“Phil is not like that,” she said. He is not a snob. He loves Music. “Music is music with him.” Music is an outward expression of what is within. There is an ocean of love in that young man – whether pain or joy.

How fortunate we are – every one of us in this family – to have music as the go to pressure valve – the way to express what is really inside – to say what can’t be put in words.

What do you need to say through music today? What do you need to hear?

Family, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Music and Theatre

In A Music House

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I have been long gone from the music house I grew up in – the house where my dad bought my mother musical instruments and paid for our weekly lessons – but when I visit, Dad will frequently ask for those old hymns. Time was, my mother and I would play duets. Duets happened less and less frequently this past decade as arthritis, knee surgery and the pain of old age exacted a toll on Mom. However, in July of 2018, when I paid a regular visit home and sat down at the well-used piano, Mom surprised us by maneuvering her walker to the vibraharp, picking up the mallets and joining in. Bent and gnarled, she was nearly leaning on the tone plates. After three tunes, she was fatigued – so she sat – on the organ bench – and played a medley. Thankfully, I had presence of mind to whip out my cellphone. Mom didn’t know she was being recorded. Please look past my shoulder and beyond my attempts to accompany by ear and enjoy an 85-year-old woman who didn’t quit on her music – or the old tunes.

Mansion Over the Hilltop

It Is No Secret

When We All Get to Heaven / At the Cross

My youngest son came to visit. This in itself was a grand occasion. I hadn’t seen him in the flesh for 16 months – though we do have the advantage of Duo Video calls and Instagram. We hiked. We ate. We talked. The kids pulled out the mandolin and guitar and I sat on the piano stool and luxuriated.

Andrea Shellabarger, mandolin, Philip Shellabarger, guitar, May 10, 2020
Andrea Shellabarger, mandolin, Philip Shellabarger, guitar, May 10, 2020

Soon I exclaimed, “Oh! It is wonderful to live in a music house!”

My 31-year-old daughter looked at me blankly, “But Mom, we have always lived in a music house.” Now that she mentions it, this is true for her – and for her brother(s). She grew up in a home where the acoustic piano was in use not only for family pleasure, but for the teaching of countless piano students. Frequently, both guitar and piano rehearsed together for the occasional music and worship gig. I taxied them to marching band and chorale rehearsals and performances. And yes, I treasure the memory of the night I sat down at the piano to relax and my pre-teen son crawled under the bench, curled up against the piano, basked in the vibration of the strings. Even when the kids flew the nest and moved out on their own, housing was with other band members – in the rehearsal house. Music was expected. Rehearsal required.

My daughter holds the lease now and I am the roommate in my current domicile for an indefinite period of time. I got the blank look again the other day when I expressed my reticence to embark on vocal exercises with neighbors so close or to play the piano and practice guitar while she reads and writes in the adjoining room.

“Mom,” she remonstrated, “when I lived with the band it was expected you practice your instrument two hours a day in addition to band rehearsals. When everyone plays more than one instrument and practices two hours a day, the projects are going to overlap. Get used to it.”

Sheesh, and I feel like I am encroaching when I woodshed for a few minutes, play piano for an hour, practice guitar 30 minutes and try to wrangle the bass for fifteen.

Yes, my children have always lived in a music house. Their roommates have been fellow band members.

Thank goodness they have never known the poverty of living with roommates who have a television running every waking moment and who, rather than cooperating to schedule times of silence for piano practice, simply turn the volume up to hear the telly over the piano.

It was not like that in the house I grew up in. When I was growing up, many years we didn’t even have a television – and the times we did, it was never allowed on Sunday. Instead of television, we practiced our instruments. And on Sundays, we played hymns.

Family, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions, HOME, Relationships

Mother’s Day 2020

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Saturday, I returned from a 24-hour trip to Grand Junction in which I had seen my 86-year-old mother finally pain -free and at peace. I was exhausted. I could hear my daughter talking to our neighbors in the back yard. I snuck into my bedroom, closed the door and crawled onto the bed. A couple minutes later came a knock at my door, “Mom? Can I just say hi!” It was my youngest son whom I have not seen for 16 months. Unbeknownst to me, the kids had been planning this surprise before I got the call that Mom was in her final hours. So grateful for the gift of perfect timing. I got to see my oldest son on Saturday and enjoy a hike and brunch with my younger two children on Sunday. And I rest in the knowledge that my mother is not sorry at all to be released from this life.

One of my friends, who knows what it is to lose a parent, called it “bittersweet.” Indeed, that is the essence of life. But the sweet lasts. Hang on to that!

Cherry, Andrea, Philip on Mother's Day 2020
Cherry, Andrea, Philip on Mother’s Day 2020

Kevin (Eldest Son) and Cherry, March 2020
Kevin (Eldest Son) and Cherry, March 2020

Family, Hiking and outdoor beauty, Metaphor

Sounds of the Trail

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Did you know that an oriole hopping about in bushes and leaves makes about the same amount of noise as three does standing together and fidgeting in the underbrush? Recently, I found this out for myself on two consecutive days. The first day, I slowed my pace and looked about for the rustling, hoping it was not a skulking bobcat or spraying skunk. A relatively small bird was making the most of grubs and caterpillars with gusto ten feet to my right. It ignored me. Next day I heard what I identified as the same noise ten feet to my left. Expecting to see yet another avian variety, instead I spied three deer ladies, posed and staring inquiringly back at me. “Please don’t stampede,” I said under my breath.

Yes, I rely on, and am grateful to retain, my auditory sense. Hearing once kept me from stepping closer to a rattler braided into a yucca bush. Usually I can hear elk or big horn before I see them and avoid collision. A spinning sprocket has its own individual voice and I can frequently tell whether it is fore or aft and find a rock or wide space to cling to before I hear the startled operator croak, “on your left.”

But the wind? The wind changes everything. Are the trees going to fall on me? Or is that creaking and groaning actually a derailleur changing gears? The pines and juniper make me skittish. Yesterday I was out of the woods, and in the gambles oak and sage brush when I heard the fast approach of a cyclist who clearly needed to oil his chain. I jumped into the grass and yucca and turned to see a wizened oak leaf, dried into a gnarled fist shape, driven by the wind – rasping all the way – chasing me down the dirt path.

Some days are becalmed but for my forward tread. Not a breeze. Lizards and snakes soundless, unnoticed unless you see them. On one such day I hiked a familiar trail. Taking a right turn at a fork I thought to myself, “Private property up ahead, I’ll just walk to the sign and then turn back.” Suddenly. Noiseless. There in the willows. As surprised and curious at my silent approach as I was by hers; a doe.

IMG_4742DeerSign

Family, Goals and Dreams, Music and Theatre

But first, music; This Magic Moment WRF edition

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She was back in town for wilderness first responder recertification and I was playing host – sort of recertifying my position as her mom and mentor. A road trip to get her here. Three days of intense training for her whilst I puttered about the apartment. The first evening I hiked to the top of the Sky Steps to meet her and we took a nature trail home together. The second night I ran up the Sky Steps and texted, “I’m at the chimes. Where are you?” A few minutes later she responded, “Bringing a couple classmates home for dinner. We are shuttling cars.” Oh my goodness, I would have to hurry. The only key was in my pocket. I met the three of them walking up the middle of the road, two blocks from the house. Two beefy outdoorsmen of her generation; one in hiking pants, the other in shorts and man-Uggs, looking pure Australian, but speaking Californian. Both had hair as long as my daughter’s. In fact, one had the exact same braid and hair color as my daughter. These were not the college sophomores of ten years ago, no, these were mature and rugged young men. Used to the out-of-doors, used to putting entire physical prowess and brain into every challenge, used to working with the public, guiding, being responsible.

My daughter served us popcorn as an hors d’oeuvres and then the young people headed out to grocery shop and see the town. The meal boded well to be fresh, cast-iron cooked, healthful – – and late.

I stole those solitary minutes as appropriate to play through a piano set and then moved on to guitar. Halfway through The Gambler the shoppers returned. Calistralia’s eyes lit as he entered and he gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I proceeded to Killing Me Softly With His Song. Wonder of wonders, he began to sing words – and harmony. In the kitchen, Andrea had scrubbed the sweet potatoes and started them to bake. Concluding my practice time, I turned to the young man and asked, “Do you play guitar?” “I have,” was his succinct reply. That reply told me volumes. Some reshuffling of dinner preparations occurred. We all pitched in. After that interruption, I stepped into the living room and handed him the guitar. Oh my heart, what beauty now emanated from those six strings. Rather than weep, I turned to the other ranger, “Do you play any instruments?” “I am a fire-dancer,” he said.

I tossed him the Remo Fruit Shakes from our china closet. Andrea picked up her mandolin. I moved to the keyboard. Dinner was almost ready. But first: music.

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