A giant's passing

I'm on my way back to Arizona to attend the Memorial Service of my beloved uncle, Tom Pendley.

Many thanks to my cousin (Tom's daughter), Kathy Shaw, for sharing this obituary of her dad:

Arizona native, Thomas Tilman Pendley II, 87, of Phoenix died February 23, 2010.

Mr. Pendley was born February 22, 1923 in Clemenceau, (now Cottonwood), AZ to Frank and Jane Pendley. Tom grew up on the family homestead at Slide Rock, north of Sedona, where they raised apples, peaches, and pears which they sold at their roadside store. Tom attended grade school in Oak Creek Canyon, high school in Flagstaff, and university at ASU. He married Dorothy Diers in 1955 and returned to manage the family farm in Oak Creek from 1963 to 1985. Tom recognized the vulnerability of the orchard crops and added sweet corn to the produce raised at Slide Rock. He developed a loyal following of customers looking for that “picked this morning” freshness that had disappeared from the local markets. Tom’s passion for quality fruits and vegetables was the motivation for his collaborative effort in the foundation of the Coconino County Fair. He fought for the rights of the family farmer at a time when government and developers were exploiting nature’s wonders. Tom worked tirelessly to make the family farm a success and to preserve the natural beauty for generations to come. Through his efforts and those of Govenor Bruce Babbitt, Slide Rock became a State Park in 1985 and has since become one of the most popular State Parks in Arizona.

Tom and Dorothy enjoyed retirement by travelling to destinations in Alaska, Europe, and Mexico. Between trips he continued farming by raising tomatoes in his backyard garden; always with the emphasis on flavor over appearance. Tom brought the flavor of life to a family that will miss him dearly.

Tom was preceded in death by his parents, Frank L. and Jane H. Pendley, his brothers Don and Frank Pendley, sisters Jill Jonovich, Eva Young, Patricia Rueger, Marge Theriault and Joy Odell.

He leaves his wife, Dorothy of Phoenix, daughters Kathy Shaw (Ed) of Flagstaff and Karen Harkey (John) of Flagstaff, son Tom Pendley III (Kathy) of Phoenix, and three grandchildren Maya Shaw, Brooke Warren and Orion Pendley and sister Nina Lovett of Cottonwood,

A Memorial service will be held at Life in Christ Lutheran Church, Peoria, AZ, on Sunday February 28, at 3:00 p.m. (623) 773-1234.

In lieu of flowers, donations in his memory may be made to Friends of Slide Rock State Park, P.O. Box 3432, Flagstaff, AZ 86003.

Thanks to my older brother, Wayne, for sharing THIS LINK to Tom's Oral History with pictures of the apple ranch in Oak Creek that is now Slide Rock State Park.

Ambivalence & Grief

Next week I head up to Alaska for my final interview in Wasilla. Then it will be decision time - they will either offer it to me or they will not. I will either decide to take it or decide to pass. I honestly am not sure how I feel about that.

This evening I've been sorting through boxes in my closet to figure out what things I would move with me and what things I'd be willing to part with. I have boxes and boxes of STUFF - cards from old friends, concert ticket stubs, restaurant menus from past dates with my husband, pressed flowers from old gardens, brochures from museums, quotes that impressed me, and all the rest...the detritus of fifty plus years of living that I've clung to despite having moved time and time again.

Do I still keep holding on to all those tokens of times past or might it be time to let much of it go? Not sure. (part of that, I suspect, will be determined on whether the new company agrees to pay for the move.)

In one box I found several different cards wishing me well on the occasions of having left my various jobs. So many goodbyes have accumulated along the way of my vagabond life.

I understand the concept of looking on life as a glass half full, choosing to focus on the blessing of having known so many great people scattered across the country as I've criss crossed this land over the years. Most days I do feel quite privileged by the opportunities I have had to cross paths with so many dear folks from all walks of life. But tonight I am feeling the sharp sting of the loss of each of those sweet friendships and the bite of having had to say too many goodbyes.

While I DO look forward to the chance to take on this big adventure (I think), I feel pensive and sad over the prospect of once more being in a town where I have zero history or sense of belonging. I am more than a little intimidated about again having to start all over from scratch in establishing a social network of people to sweeten my life.

Because this particular job will put me back into a "boss" role at work I know I won't feel free to have the rich friendships at my workplace that I've had at some of my other jobs. I can get along great with others and build a strong sense of team. But being the boss means there will have to be boundaries that sometimes leave me feeling a bit isolated.

I expect I will meet people at my church and hopefully make some friends there. But even that can be difficult at times. I'm too liberal and unconventional for a lot of the church people I meet.. and yet too faith based and accepting of certain religious ideas and rules to fit in with the liberal, unconventional folks I know. So all too often I am stuck in the middle of no man's land, wondering if this is similar to what some bi-racial people experience, never completely fitting in either world.

I keep thinking of the people here who I have come to love so very much over the past eight years, and those who have proven their grit through layers of mutual support and shared challenges. I think of those who have fully accepted me despite our major differences in values and those who have shared of themselves over the years in truly significant ways. I am mindful of all I will be giving up to embrace this new adventure. I honestly believe that if we get the opportunity to go we should grab it. I am convinced that in many ways it will be an amazing experience that I will revel in with passion and fervor. But at the very same time, I know that saying goodbye to this place, these friends, the sense of connection and belonging that I have painstakingly woven here is going to break my heart.

There is no one sided penny. There is indeed opposition in all things. In coming days I will work hard to choose to focus on the good parts of this opportunity, should it open up to enfold me. But tonight I'm feeling the fear and the grief. Tonight I'm afraid that if they said "sorry, we pick someone else" I would simply give a huge sigh of relief.

We'll see what next week brings.

Most things in life get easier with practice. Repeating a thing over and over again usually brings increased levels of mastery. But not coping with grief. The aching stab of loss just gets compounded with practice. Every new loss seems to piggyback on the preceding separations, widening the cavern of emptiness all the more.

Whether we leave in the next couple months to head off to Alaska or wait till the fall and try again for Idaho I WILL eventually be leaving the life I have carved out for myself here in Eastern Oregon. Knowing that separation is absolutely coming with naked inevitability - whether sooner or later - has my heart wincing in anticipatory grief. All the positive parts of what come next simply cannot blot out the cost of the loss.

Christmas Meme / Christmas Funk

This will NOT be the meme I had intended.

My blogger pal Jaquandor is always good for a meme. He put up a fun Christmas meme on his blog and I thought I'd post my own version here. After all, he says he tags EVERYBODY and that includes me, right?

I made several attempts at putting in my answers. However, each time I tried, it would just complicate my already swirling funk.

First question: Favorite traditional Christmas song:Sure, I could just name off a few songs. I DO like some of 'em. "Do You See What I See" comes to mind. But the very thought of Christmas music also brings me precariously close to the mental / emotional turmoil I've been avoiding.

Dec 16 was the anniversary of my father's death. In a few days (Dec 21) will be the anniversary of my mother's. They both died suddenly and unexpectedly (him of heart failure while asleep in bed, her during a heart bypass surgery that was supposed to be serious but routine) in 1983. Granted, that was a long time ago. But as anyone who has lost people close to them knows, the years can telescope on you in a heartbeat, bringing distant losses rushing back to feel like present wounds.

My parents had divorced when I was about 13, lived in different towns, both had remarried and hadn't spoken to each other for several years. But they dropped dead with no warning in the very same week when I was just 26. Their deaths collided with the Christmas season, wrapping all the emotions of grief and loss around every tinsel, every cookie, every tune.

Mostly I've dealt with the bereavement as much as can be expected. Face it, true grief is not like a cold that you can get over. It's more like an amputation - something that changes you forever. You accommodate it and learn to move forward in the new reality, but it never goes back to how it used to be. So, in that sense, I have come to terms with it. But every Christmas season there are so many reminders of the wound...the sights, the sounds, the smells all haunt me. Every fa la la la la brings up images of my mother's dead face in her casket. Every freaking time I hear a Salvation Army bell ringer I get mini-flashes of my father - pictures in my brain I DO NOT WANT.

This is all the more crazy making because I did NOT have good relations with my parents. So much anger and guilt, hurt feelings and trapped love were tangled up with shame and longing in those relationships. Somehow I used to believe that EVENTUALLY we'd resolve some of the ugliness and learn to be more honest and supportive of one another, the way I believed families were SUPPOSED to be. Truth is, had they lived to be the age of Methuselah I doubt we ever could have repaired the breach. Our family was so fractured by so many things...all the kings horses and all the kings men could never have put those relationships together again. But as long as they were alive I still had the hope that someday MAYBE it could be made right. Now it never can.

So all I am left with is something like the smell of a campfire that has been doused with water...burned out, muddy mess...cold, offering no solace.

Christmas can be a tough time for me. I have my good days where I get pretty close to being able to feel the joy of the season. And I have my bad days where it is all one excruciating nightmare. Paying focused attention to the specific triggers of Christmas just doesn't seem in my best interest right now. So I think I'll pass.

Over on Waters of Mormon, one of the other blogs I contribute to, Starfoxy came up with this to say about the Christmas season:

"In the past I've taken cues from my parents and bemoaned the commercialization of Christmas. I've lamented how quickly the birth of Christ is forgotten among the gifts and festivities.

These days, however, I'm seriously considering cutting my losses and completely separating my recognition of Christ's birth from the midwinter celebrations.

December is an intense month. There are various holidays, traditions, and parties to attend to. For the students there are midterms, or final exams. For the employed there are year end reports, filings, and meetings. There are preparations for next year to take into account. The weather frequently turns difficult. Most people travel to spend time with family. At the end of the month many find themselves physically and emotionally exhausted. And amongst all of that we're supposed to find time for meaningful reflection on Christ's birth, life and resurrection. I can't muster up and surprise that it all too frequently just doesn't happen.

So why not just buckle down and make it happen? Why not make time for that meaningful reflection. Why can't I ditch the parties? Why shouldn't I spend hours training my kids to understand that Santa and rudolf weren't at the stable? Why can't I just push, shove, pull, wrangle, wrestle and cajole my family into feeling the peace, joy and comfort of contemplating the Condescension of God?

Here's my reasoning- Santa, Rudolf, Christmas Trees, gifts, and parties are going hold my kid's attention no matter what I do. They're going to hear it at school, from their friends, in the stores, and on TV. People will demand my attention work and service whether they should or not. I will feel stress, and fatigue. My children will probably be like me- itching to open presents so bad that they can barely sit still long enough to listen to the first half of Luke 2. Why even try to pair the love of Christ with the clamor of modern day Christmases and hope that I can shout louder than everyone else?

Instead I plan for Christmas becomes a time for parties, togetherness, gifts, service, and sharing. And then on the 12th day of Christmas, January 6th, or the day of Epiphany I will, quietly, peacefully and deliberately celebrate the birth and childhood of Christ. After the decorations are put away, the presents have lost some of their sparkle, and just before things get back to normal I will put aside time to teach my children about the miracle of Christ's birth."

As I responded to her there, I have misgivings about capitulating to the mayhem.
The only thing that I can hang on to that is GOOD about Christmas is my focus on the Savior. That part still sustains me. It's all the rest of it that I want to hide my head in the sand and run away from.

Coping With Grief

Today's Woman to Woman topic is on Coping With Grief. I have sorta dropped off the map with this writing challenge of late...too many other irons in the fire. When I knew that grief would be this week's topic I resolved to get back in the saddle and say a few things. But now that it comes time to post I find my feelings regarding more recent losses are simply too raw for public consumption. So instead I'll post a piece I wrote many years back. This was originally published in the journal Thanatos in 1996 under the title "Giving Sorrow Voice." (Fall 1996. Vol. 21/ No 3)Maybe at some point I will write of other things. But for now, this will have to do.

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What am I supposed to do with this reawakened aching? How can I put on the expected smiles when I see my older brother taking vows with his new bride? My brother’s first wife, Donna, died two years ago. She was only thirty-four. With her death, my illusions of safety in the world were completely ripped apart.

I felt so ambivalent when we first lost her. I was relieved to finally see her set free from months of cancer’s anguish. Yet, I was simultaneously outraged that she had been taken away. Donna was more than my “sister-in-law.” She was my friend. She was maid of honor at my own wedding. She was my confidant more times than I could count. We used to joking say that her husband (my brother) was okay, but the real reason I savored my relationship with their family was because of the fun I had with her. Since we lived several states apart, we didn’t see each other often. But through letters, phone calls and occasional visits, we kept the torch of friendship burning bright.

Then she got sick. The illness took her inch by painful inch. It was excruciating. There were days of bitterness, weeks of fury, months of pain beyond words. I hated that I was so far away and could not help her. I felt helpless and impotent. Yet, beyond that, what I hated even more was that there seemed to be no clear role for those of us on the periphery of the grief. While everyone rallied around Donna and my brother, no one ever saw how much I was hurting, too. In fact, I was expected to be one of the ones being strong and kind, always available to listen. I didn’t know who to turn to when my own breaking heart needed some listening to.

So I played the role that seemed laid out for me. My sorrow bubbled quietly inside when the final call came, saying it was time. I remained “strong“ as the family converged in Idaho to say goodbye, to witness Donna’s death, and to attend the memorial. As I went through the motions of assisting with the necessary arrangements, the hurt camped out in my soul like a bewildered vagrant, having no clear clue of where to go. In the weeks after the funeral, that same hurt would catch in my throat every time someone would ask “How’s Andy doing? We were so sad to hear about Donna’s death.” No one ever asked how I was doing. No one ever seemed to realize that part of my world had been shattered too.

When time marched on, and my brother found a new love in his life, the whole family was thrilled, myself included. He had been through so much anguish. It was wonderful to see him embracing life again. And yet, when the gilt-edged announcement of his wedding came in the afternoon mail, I suddenly felt the wind knocked out of me. Granted, it had been two years. Still, holding the invitation in my hand opened up the old wound all over again. Some corner of my brain started howling when, finally, I was forced to admit all the way to my bones that Donna truly is gone. Two years worth of stuffed feelings came rushing out with a vengeance. Every scrap of my being throbbed as tears streamed down my face.

I will attend my brother’s wedding, sincerely happy that his new life is blooming with abundance. But I’ve also come to realize I need to listen to and nurture my own aching heart. I loved Donna keenly. And love, by its very nature, is savage business. It leaves our hearts open and vulnerable to pain. Just because I was not the one to lose a spouse does not minimize the very real hurt that losing a dear friend brought me. I thought I was done with grief and mourning. Now I see how much I still need to address the emotions which have festered down deep for all this time. I need to bind up those wounds, but to do so I must first give them voice and validation. Only then can I truly move on and fully heal.

I will honor my memory of my sister-in-law and cherished friend with a wreath of Queen Anne’s lace which I know she treasured. Then I will begin talking about this with folks who’ve proven their grit by supporting me over and through other serious hurts. I will never forget Donna’s musical machine-gun laugh, her love of Christmas, or her passion for her cats. But I will come to terms with the loss of her more fully by genuinely confronting the impact that loss has caused in my life. I will no longer cripple my heartache by denying its legitimacy. It does not matter how long ago her heart stopped beating. Healing seldom fits into carefully laid out timetables. I wasn’t ready before. Today I am. Finally, I begin to fully grieve.

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To read what others have had to say on this topic, go to
My Many Colored Days and/or Seeds From My Garden.

Thanantology

My blogger pal Joel asked in a post comment about the course in Death & Dying that I used to teach. I started to just fire off an e-mail to answer his questions, but decided I'd go ahead and post my reply about it here.

Thanantology is the study of death and dying. About a dozen years ago I taught a course in Death and Dying for a couple terms at a community college in Michigan. Then I taught it again as a special topics seminar at my old Alma mater, Western Michigan University. I did quite a bit of research in preparation for the course. I volunteered with hospice. I got to know a homicide detective pretty well. I went out with a coroner's assistant to the scene of a deceased man to investigate cause and legally declare the person dead. I hung out in funeral homes a lot. I researched cross-cultural traditions related to death. I attended workshops and read A LOT of books.

In my class we talked about all sorts of things - from violent death to pet death to SIDS. We discussed the businesses that profit from death. We had speaker panels - a man who had lost his partner to HIV/AIDS, a woman whose teen aged daughter had been killed by a drunk driver, a guy whose dad had committed suicide.

My students all had to write their own obituaries and plan whatever form of body disposal & service they wanted. We had field trips to cemeteries and funeral homes. We talked a lot about how death adds meaning to life.

But no matter how much research I may have done, no matter how many books on the subject I read - nothing really prepares your heart for letting go of those we love.

When I was in my early 20's my parents both died. Although divorced for over five years and completely out of contact with each other they died the very same week. My mother was 53. My father was 55. Both deaths were sudden and completely unexpected.

In 2000 my stepdaughter, Stacy, died of cancer. She was 25. That wound still stings my soul in ways I can scarcely name.

Some years before that my beloved sister-in-law, Donna, also died of cancer. That loss was savage business that robbed every one who ever knew her of a very special spirit.

I worked for a while doing HIV/AIDS intervention work, and through that job got to know several people who were in their final stages of life.

Then a couple years ago I lost four different people dear to me over a six month span. With that cluster of grief I learned something that all the study in the world could never teach.

Dealing with death is different from just about every other experience in that it doesn't get better or easier with practice. If I throw a ball or play a flute or cut stained glass long enough, over time I get better at it. I build skill sets that create a level of proficiency in place of early bumbling attempts or mediocrity. Do a deed over and over and over again long enough and you WILL get better. But it doesn't work that way with letting go of those we love.

My experience has been that grief piggy backs. When I have a new loss, it triggers many of the old emotions from former letting go episodes to come tumbling out again, so that I end up confronting stacks of sorrow, piles of pain. Each new repose serves as a reminder of what I've not entirely resolved in the earlier losses. Also, knowing lots about the dynamics of grief, even being called a "trained expert" by some, in no way gets me off the hook from my own breaking heart.

Right now both of my older brothers' wives are facing the approaching deaths of their mothers. While I don't know those women well I DO know and care deeply for my sisters-in-law whose lives are reeling from the events that are unfolding. Also a co-worker of mine just lost her son, and is at this time feeling utterly desolate over that. In my church family there are people who are seriously ill whose lives may be short. Compound that with the fact that nearly every week we hear of losses of soldiers in far away lands...it all piles up to taunt me with how pervasive death is in this fallen mortal world.

Because of my religious faith I truly do believe in a life after death and I am confidant that the next phase of our eternal progression will be an amazing, wonderful thing. Still, I kick against death - recoil from its approach among those I know and love.

Yet I recognize that LIFE is terminal. Ain't none of us gettin' out of here alive. We are all dying from the moment we first take breath. It's just that some people get some warning in the form of a diabolical diagnosis and a message from doctors to put affairs in order while others, like my parents, meet death like a thief in the night.

Life is precious to us primarily BECAUSE we know it is a limited commodity. If I've learned anything from the precious time I've spent among those who were terminally ill it is to respect life every moment that we have of it, drink it in deep, appreciate it and say what we really mean. Life is too short for posing, hypocrisy, unkindness or lies.

Also I've learned that there never was a hearse with a U-haul trailer full of stuff attached. In the end, the shiny things just get passed on or sold in a tag sale.

Death is one of the great mysteries. No matter how strong my faith in the here after, there is no way to really KNOW what death will bring until it's actually my turn. As I get closer with each passing year to the age my parents were when they crossed over, I've thought quite a bit about what life and death mean to me.

Mostly I want to live my life with as much passion, compassion, and humor as I can muster, hoping to build some integrity along the way. Whenever my time does come, I want to leave behind lots of people who knew they were very well loved, and hopefully be remembered with more laughter than tears.