Letters To Lyla

Dear Lyla,

I think I have figured out what makes grandparents so special; they have learned patience. I never understood as a child why my grandparents never got their feathers ruffled at my endless monologues or my need for an attentive audience when the dress up bug bit me. As a parent I now understand. In order to truly appreciate the sticky fingered, dirty faced, milk-spilling cacophony of  the world of children, you have to be done raising your own. Patience has never been my strong suit (as you and your daddy well know). Although, looking back, I had my fair share of hoary headed mentors who were more than willing to model such a virtue. One paragon of patience was my grandpa Hadsel; grandma Jo’s daddy. Grandma Jo was born and raised in Portland, Oregon and, while I was born there, we moved to Minnesota when I was very young. When I was a bit older I got to fly on a plane to visit grandpa Hadsel and grandma Dorothy (grandma Jo, Bumpa and Patti came too). I will never forget the flight! You could drink as much ginger-ale as you wanted and they gave you hot, moist towels to wash your face with right before you land (they don’t do that anymore, that’s a story for another day). It was an exciting trip, but perhaps too exciting for an 8 or 9 year old. I was so tired after I got to grandma and grandpa’s house all I wanted to do was sleep. I know now that I was experiencing jet lag, which I can tell you is not fun at any age. When I finally came around, I was groggy and a bit weepy. I think grandma Jo and Bumpa were pretty frustrated with me because they had a lot of activities planned and I was not cooperating. Grandpa Hadsel came to my rescue and asked me what I would like to do for fun. I think he understood that at such a young age I could not communicate to my parents that I was experiencing the wooziness that comes with jet lag. I promptly told my grandpa that I would like to play beauty shop! He replied that, although follicly challenged in places, he was willing to be my “client.” I began my craft with wild abandon.  I combed grandpa’s hair this way and that, making the most out of my opportunity to style a willing and compliant volunteer. So encouraged was I by my new found talent that I began to experiment with the tools of my trade. Before I knew it, I could not free the comb from grandpa’s hair. My efforts to tug only rewarded me with muted grunts of pain emanating from my grandpa’s chest. I realized with horror that I had  irreparably tangled the comb into my grandpa’s hair. My lower lip began to tremble as I knew this would surely land me in hot water and it was a matter of seconds before I was in hysterics; certain that I had ruined our holiday to the west coast. Before I knew it I had been shepherded into an adjacent room while the adults stewed about the best way to liberate grandpa from the fine tooth comb that had set up residence in his hair. In the end they had to cut the comb out. My parents were not happy with me for my little caper.  As I said before, that is to be expected from parents as they have not yet mellowed with time and learned to take things in stride. Grandpa, however, was the balm of forgiveness that day. He assured me that it was only hair; it would grow back. I am confident somewhere deep down inside grandpa knew the risks of letting his granddaughter loose with a fine tooth comb and an overactive imagination. You may wonder where the lesson is in this story little one, and so I will tell you. Grandparents are one of the greatest gifts that children receive. When your parents are frustrated and seemingly stumped with “what on earth they should do with you,” your wise grandparents already know the answer; hugs, kisses and soft reassurances that you are loved. Enjoy your grandparents little one, together you will create memories that will last a lifetime.

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Dear Lyla,

I wonder if, when you are older, you will recognize that the most significant information passed from one human to another almost always comes in the form of a narrative. I suppose the simple act of storytelling is what makes us human and has the ability to connect one generation to another; the reason why ancestral characters can transcend time and space to become fixtures in family lore. It is both peculiar and comforting that, while we may have long forgotten the specific events of a finely woven tale, the feeling of contentment that comes from being satiated by a good story can stay with us forever. The notion that  memories of stories told in the distant past serve as an emotional anchor for the present is the impetus for today’s musings. When I was little, about the same age you are now, grandma Jo and Bumpa moved our whole family from Portland, Oregon to Ottertail Lake, Minnesota. Bumpa had worked for the gas company for a good many years and he and grandma had saved enough money to buy a little resort on the north shore of a darling little lake. My understanding is the resort needed a lot of tender loving care when grandma and Bumpa took over; so much so that grandma needed help to watch me and my sister Patti during the summer when the tourists were visiting. They hired a girl from a local high school to come and live with us that summer, her name was Penney. I was so excited to meet someone with the same name as me (even though she spelled it differently). I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and she was so friendly. Penney took us on picnics, swimming in the lake and would play tons of games with us. Even though all of these activities are the stuff that 5 year old dreams are made of, Penney had one other unforgettable quality; she could tell stories. Patti and I would get washed up and ready for bed, slip under the covers and wait for the magic of the day to begin when Penney would settle in to tell us a story. I am sure that she must have read to us from story books, but I don’t remember that at all. What I remember is that Penney would spin stories out of thin air for our nightly pleasure and the most frequent hero in her daily fables was “Fido the Flying Dog.” Fido was no any ordinary canine belonging to the general mongrel variety (although the physical description was suspiciously similar to that of our dog at the time, Muggsey). Fido was a super dog and could fly with extraordinary grace and speed to save the day at a moment’s notice. There was always a moral at the end of the story (most likely inspired by whatever mischief we had managed that day). I remember no specific plot lines, settings or outcomes of any of the many yarns that were spun for us that first summer at the lake, I truly wish I did. What I do remember is that we would wait with hungry anticipation for Penney to begin her nightly ritual. There was comfort in the soft tones of her voice, certainty of the hero’s valor and the promise of the  sandman’s imminent visit. After all of these years I can still see her so vividly in my mind’s eye sitting on the edge of the bed willing me to succumb to sleep through the melodious tones of her narrative. So you see little one, the joy in the story sometimes lies solely with the connection made between the storyteller and the listener. Throughout our lives there will be thousands of tales to both share and receive; the trick my love, is to recognize the gift of the story when it is given.

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Dear Lyla,

Sometimes it’s not easy being little. The world is big and bright and there is so much to do and see. At times, it is all one can do to sit still when inside the mind is racing and the feet seem to have a will of their own. You may find this hard to believe but, when I was your age, it was difficult for me to pay attention and I wasn’t the best listener. It seems that poor listening skills often led to heavy misfortunes indeed, especially if the lack of attention to detail came after grandma Jo had reminded me repeatedly to finish a task. I do not recall what my crime was on the day this story takes place; perhaps I didn’t remember to pick up my toys or failed to fold the laundry (I confess I still have trouble with that one). Whatever my transgression, it must have been grievous indeed because grandma Jo handed down the most feared of punishments, I was grounded. Not only was I grounded, I was grounded to my room! It must have been a terrible infraction for such a sentence (you will have to ask grandma what I did, I honestly do not remember). The reason for my memory issue probably has something to do with what happened when I was exiled to my room. I was your age at the time and there were no toys or books in my room, just a bed and a few random stuffed animals. I imagine had I been a teenager I may have welcomed the isolation as some teenagers are keen on brooding. But I was not a teenager, I must have been no older than 5 or 6. My room was way at the back of the house and the rest of my family was in the living room, quite a distance from where I was to remain in solitary confinement. It was very quiet in my room, too quiet. When the sun started to go down I heard a noise from the closet, a high pitched eerie noise that seemed to get louder as the sun fell from the sky. You may imagine my distress as the closet seemed to take on a life of its own. I was sure I was to be an appetizer for a half starved monster that would emerge from between my neatly hung dresses at any moment. Before I could be devoured by the closet beast I screamed for my mom; grandma came running! By the time she reached me I was crying like it was my profession and I could barely be understood between the sobs. Somehow I managed to warn her about the impending doom coming from the general direction of the closet. I don’t know how the woman did it, but to her credit she kept a straight face and informed me that the beast waiting to pounce on me was nothing more than a mere field cricket. I didn’t know what a field cricket was and so to my 5 year old mind it may as well have horns, fangs and breathed fire when angry. Clearly I was not to be comforted. Then my mother went to the bookshelf and picked up a very thick book, it was a collection of Disney stories. She very patiently turned to the story of Pinocchio. Grandma has a lovely story voice, as you well know, and soon I was transcended into the world of lost boys and man swallowing whales. Along the way I met Jiminy Cricket who was charged with keeping Pinocchio out of trouble. Grandma explained to me that the cricket in my closet was just letting me know I wasn’t alone and that there was nothing to be afraid of (I think there may have been an aside in grandma’s story  about not getting into trouble in the first place). That evening I learned about not giving your fears the power to overwhelm you. I learned to not forget that there will always be people in the world who love you and care about you. We all struggle with fear little one, even grown ups, but if we  face those fears and ask for help when we need it there is never a reason to despair.

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Dear Lyla,

Friendship is one of life’s blessings that I am most grateful for. I think we learn how to be good friends from our parents. We watch how they treat others and we emulate our friendships after their behavior. When you are older if someone asks you “what do you remember about your mom?” I hope that one of the things you will be able to say is “she was kind to others, she was a good friend.” My daddy, your Bumpa, taught me a lot about what it means to be a good friend. I wish I would have realized the value of this lesson when I was a lot younger, but I digress, let me tell you about Bumpa & Chuck. When I was little we used to travel to Madison, MN on holidays to visit my grandma Lyla, my great grandma Susie and my aunt Nancy and her kids. Without exception, my dad would stop and visit a man named Charles, or “Chuck.” I remember that Chuck was soft spoken, quiet and was always smiling (he would break out in an especially wide, lopsided grin when Bumpa came to visit). My daddy would greet Chuck with enthusiasm, ask him about his day, and stuff a five or ten dollar bill into his hand. It wasn’t until years later that I came to understand that Chuck was mentally challenged and that he and Bumpa had been friends since my daddy was a teenager. I do not remember if it was my mother or my grandmother who told me about how they came to be friends, it wasn’t Bumpa who told me; that I know for sure. It is my understanding that the other teens used to tease Chuck because he was different; he talked slower, walked slower and couldn’t read well. But I guess your Bumpa didn’t care about any of that; he thought Chuck was nice and deserved to have a friend. My daddy started standing up for Chuck and the other teens stopped teasing him. To my knowledge Chuck was Bumpa’s oldest friend and he never missed the opportunity to visit with him when he had the chance. These visits were full of ritual; there would be a handshake, a cup of coffee, a crisp five or ten dollar bill and a long visit (usually Bumpa did most of the talking; he was a story teller and Chuck enjoyed listening to his tales). You may be thinking, “why the money?” I used to think that too, I asked my mom about it once. She said that Chuck didn’t have a lot of money when he was younger and that Bumpa would give him a little extra when he had it (times were tight back when Bumpa was a teen so this was a sacrifice indeed). Bumpa found out that Chuck always bought something for others first before spending it on himself. He might buy a bag of candy for someone in the nursing home or a handkerchief for a friend who needed one, but he always shared what he had. I think it touched Bumpa that Chuck would always think of others before himself, this is part of what made him so special. From that day Bumpa made sure he always had money when he went to visit Chuck. Bumpa and Chuck were friends until the day my daddy went to heaven. I remember the day I went to visit Chuck shortly after my daddy died, I had never seen a grown man weep before. Before long Chuck was rattling on about the good times that he and Bumpa had when they were younger. As I stood up to leave I reached out to Chuck, gave him a hug and slipped into his hand a ten dollar bill that had been in my daddy’s wallet.  I want you to know little one that friends come in all shapes, sizes and abilities. Each one of us is unique and has something to offer the world. My hope is that you are able to look beyond the surface and  recognize a kindred spirit when you see one. Friendship is truly one of the greatest gifts we can receive and I pray that you will be both a recipient and giver of such a precious treasure.

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Dear Lyla,

You were named after two very special women; my grandma Lyla and daddy’s great grandma May. It is because they were so dear to your daddy and I that we named you after them. They were both strong, kind women with great senses of humor. When I was young I loved to spend time with my grandma Lyla at her apartment in Madison, MN. She was what you would expect a grandma to be like. She always smiled, she smelled good and she was kind of squishy when you hugged her. What patience she had with me when I was little, I was always on the go. I constantly begged her to take Patti and I to the pool or to watch me perform one more dress-up show, or to tell “pretty please” just one more story. There was one story that she told me time and time again, Thumbelina. Oh how I could just imagine a little girl no bigger than your thumbnail who would sleep in a walnut shell. I had an insatiable need for tales of the brave Thumbelina and grandma could spin a yarn like nobody’s business. So enthralled I was with the story of the little pixie that she started to call me  Thumbelina. You can imagine my excitement to receive a letter addressed to Thumbelina Marie Pier! It was a special delight that she and I shared, all those adventures of the sassy little girl who lived in the nutshell (and in grandma’s version of the story, Thumbelina and I seemed to share many of the same physical features). To this day I can remember the timbre of grandma’s voice as she would make the characters come alive for me during story time. It was truly a gift that she gave to me; to feel so safe and secure that I could let my mind imagine the most wondrous and impossible of tales. It is grandma’s lesson to share the gift of imagination that I hope to pass on to you. I pray that you will always take the time to let your mind dream of things that are not tangible yet, somehow, real. I wish for you to learn there is value in letting your mind wander from time to time (some of my best ideas come from a little recreational day dreaming). Finally,  I hope you fiercely protect and hold safe the inner child who embraces life’s possibilities with abandon.

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