Cleaning the garage knocks memories loose

Cleaning the garage. Ugh.

It might be my least favorite job. Yet, it's a task that's been calling my name for months. And I've been procrastinating — shutting the door quickly, so no one could see.

But recently, my mess threshold broke. I couldn't put up with it anymore, so I put on my grubby work clothes, opened the garage door, took a deep breath and dived in.

It was messy and unorganized, and there were too many things we no longer needed. Bottles and cans that needed to be returned. Grass cuttings, fall leaves and dead bugs that needed to be swept.

We got a new couch in January. The old one still sat in our garage. (OK. Full disclosure: The old couch is still there.) There were large cardboard boxes from items recently purchased. Kids toys were strewn in various corners. Many of them, the kids outgrew years ago.

I could go on, but you get the picture. Maybe you even understand first-hand what I was up against: a collection of a nearly 14 year marriage and two kids.

That's what prompted this entry. As I began to purge the past, I also began to reminisce. And that can be dangerous when trying to clean.

I mean, how could we get rid of the old stroller? It carried both of our babies on numerous amazing trips, as well as the everyday walk around the block. I found it in pretty rough shape, and why shouldn't it be? It raced through airports as we tried to catch flights. And it has been shut in the back gate of our van more than a few times. It also has cradled sleeping babies, strapped in screaming toddlers and has endured more smashed up goldfish crackers and stinky milk than it deserved. How could we get rid of that?

Or the kids' play lawnmower? That thing has "cut" more grass than our real lawnmower. And if you know the Fettigs, you know that's true. Carter received this little mower on his first birthday. I've watched our little guy follow his dad around the lawn for hours. A precious memory. But he's old enough to push the real thing now. Still, am I ready to admit that those days are behind me? Those toddler years, full of exploration, wonder and adoration?

The memories were starting to cloud my judgment. Could I really part with all these treasures? I had to shake it off.

That's when I ran across the mini-shopping cart. Oh, the mini-shopping cart. That cart was dragged to grocery stores to entertain my little "helpers."

And then there was the day we took it to the farmers market, a trip that will never be forgotten.

Carter was 3, and Tatum was 4 months old and strapped onto me in a front carrier. Carter wanted me to put the fresh fruits and veggies in his cart. It had been a lovely morning, and we were at our last vendor. I was paying the farmer and, Carter, a rather busy boy at that age, had already pulled away and decided to take off running.

The rest of it happened in slow motion. His head was down and he was barreling along and picking up speed. I could see he did not notice the older gentleman right smack in his way. I yelled. I tried to get his attention to stop.

Too late.

He nailed the man in the shin. Hard. The man somehow defied gravity, his body at one point parallel to the ground, I swear. I have no idea how he stayed on his feet. But as soon as he could, he looked at Carter and mumbled something about "damn kids."

My produce went rolling. My tears instantly went flowing. Luckily, a nice woman stopped and picked up my vegetables while I, sobbing, picked up Carter and hauled both kids to the car.

OK, maybe I am ready.

Out with the old and in with the new, as they say. I don't need the item to remind me of the amazing times we've spent together as a family. I will always hold those memories dear.

Well, at least most of them.

I'd rather forget that stupid shopping cart.

Just the kind of day grandma would have wanted

The weather was lovely, friends and family gathered, stories were told — some I'd never heard about her before. There were tears shed, laughter heard, hugs and handshakes. It wasn't easy, but it was time. It was the perfect day to say goodbye. Rest in peace, Grandma.

One more gathering with Grandma ... this time, to say goodbye

Madonna Nolan Cussans

10. 29.1918 - 1.13.2011

How do you say goodbye?

I've been struggling with that question for days. For months. I've been working on this blog posting since before Mother's Day. I type. I delete. I type. I delete. Nothing I write seems to do justice to the amazing life of my 92-year-old grandmother.

She died on January 13. And because she lived in northern Michigan with all its precarious weather, we decided to nix a traditional memorial service and opt for a summer celebration of life. She would have liked that. Her home, nestled on Crystal Lake, hosted many family gatherings over the years. So it seemed fitting that we all would meet for one last family reunion at her home.

What I didn't realize is how hard it would be to face the fact that she won't be there with us.

It's been a strange mourning process. She died in January, but because we haven't had any formal goodbye, I don't think I've fully embraced the fact that she won't be sitting at her kitchen table, reading the paper, waiting for us to arrive.

On Saturday, I will have my chance to properly mourn the fact that my grandma is gone, but also to celebrate her life. And it was quite a life ...

She was so many things: a farmer's daughter, a World War II nurse, a Purple Heart recipient, a wife, mother, sister, aunt, friend, business owner, amateur artist, a collector, a cook, a volunteer. She was kind, generous, calm, caring. She was my grandma.

She liked having her family around. When we visited, she didn't just sit around. She walked in the lake with us. She took us to Sleeping Bear Dunes. We went to art fairs. We were her focus.

In a way, I'm ready. I am ready to give this special woman a fitting farewell. Her life was important, and we should recognize it, reflect on it and, yes, celebrate it. She was 92. She lived a long, good life. It was just the last two years that hadn't been her best, but she didn't suffer at the end. For that, we are thankful.

And yet the kid in me, who remembers all the good times spent with her on Crystal Lake isn't ready to let go of her grandma.

One more game of Old Maid. One more swim in the lake. One more laugh till you cry. One more shopping trip to Frankfort. One more homemade batch of applesauce. One more dinner at the Hungry Tummy. One more road trip to Illinois. One more Thanksgiving with her stuffing. One more back scratch. One more walk downtown. One more Fourth of July celebration. One more letter in the mail. One more hug.

One more goodbye.

For more about my grandmother: http://record-eagle.com/obituaries/x71343265/Madonna-Cussans

Instant friends forever: A bond that spans a generation

I wasn't sure what to expect when we arrived in Tennessee. I knew Katie and I would pick up where we left off. The bag of Doritos was waiting. Our friendship is comfortable that way. We know each other so well, our distance in miles has never really made an impact. We still laugh the same way we did when we were teenagers. And we can as easily delve into more serious conversations, too.

I worried more about our daughters. We would be there for five days, and I wanted them to get along. I wanted them to find friendship in each other. I knew it might take some warming up, but I hoped they would find each other.

What I wasn't prepared for is how quickly they embraced. On the ride from the airport, the giggling began. And it didn't stop the entire visit. They spent endless hours together and never seemed to get tired of each other. They were a sight to behold. They were silly, helpful, loving and sweet. It is a visit none of us will forget. Tatum already is asking when we can go back — when will we see her new BFFs again.

Teaching Our Daughters the True Meaning of BFF

To my kids, she is Aunt Katie. She’s been that since the congratulations gift she sent when Carter, our 10-year-old, was born. She signed the card Aunt Katie, and it just seemed right. To me, she’s been a nearly life-long friend. We met in kindergarten, but our friendship didn’t start then. We lived in the same neighborhood, but we were an unlikely pair. She was curls, frills and all girl. I was a big-wheel riding, tree-climbing tomboy. We were in Brownies together, and we were not friends. We fought often. One day, when we were about 8 years old, the tension boiled over and we were ready to throw down in my driveway. She called me an a_ _hole. And even though I was the tomboy, I was scared of her. I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, in fourth or fifth grade, we came together, and once we did, we were inseparable. I can’t even count how many hours we spent together. In the summer, it was all day, every day. I jumped on my 10-speed and cruised to her house and I stayed there all day. We made extravagant breakfasts and divine lunches. Her house always had the better food supplies. I ate Little Debbie snacks by the box full. And she always saved the Doritos for me. Oh, I love Doritos. We shared clothes, and she tried her hardest to help through my years of bad hair days — as hopeless as they were. At 16, her parents took us to Daytona Beach. We had our own room, and we had the time of our lives. We'll just leave it at that. In high school, we traveled in different circles. I ran track and cross country. She was a cheerleader and dated a football player from another school. Our friendship was different, but still we were there for each other. Today she’s the friend I call first when something goes right. She’s also first to know when life gets hard. She was nearly the first to know when I was pregnant, the first friend on the list to call when both of my children were born. And she is the friend that will honestly tell me if my “butt looks big.” She moved to Tennessee about five years ago. When she told me, I cried. I worried about our friendship. Would it last? With husbands and families, would we find time to talk and stay close? How would we see each other enough? I’m not sure why I ever worried. I think back to the day we almost physically fought each other, way back in second grade. We hated each other with a passion. But since we found our friendship, we’ve cared about each other just as passionately. It’s the kind of friendship I want my own children to experience — to find that forever friend. Tomorrow, I will fly with my daughter to visit my BFF in Tennessee. It’s a girls week. Her husband is working out of town. So it’s just me, her and our daughters: Six girls, together. We’ll do our best this week to be role models, to show our daughters the meaning of true friendship: Being there through it all, ready to laugh together and pick up the pieces, too. With a bag of Doritos in hand.

Finding balance, with support and helping hands

It has been a while since I last posted anything here. What’s sweet is that a couple of people noticed.

They asked where I have been, and when I would write again.

I started this blog as a creative outlet. It helped me find my passion again. I love to write, but the past couple of years I haven’t written much for enjoyment. This blog is my opportunity to write about what strikes me. It feels good that some people like to read it, too.

But the past couple of months I have been pursuing another passion of mine: teaching.

After studying part time the past several years, I earned my teacher certification last spring through Grand Valley State University. It was a big moment for me. To top it off, I was hired in the fall — the Friday before school started, to be exact — as a kindergarten teacher.

Needless to say, getting settled in my classroom and finding my way as a teacher has been a whirlwind. Most days, I come home exhausted emotionally and physically. The first week, my face hurt from talking so much. And still, by the end of every week, my throat is sore.

But it has been an amazing year, and I am so grateful for each and every day in my classroom. Each week, things get a little bit easier. My students teach me something new every day, and I can’t imagine another job I could love more.

Well, that’s not totally true. See, for the past nine years, I was a stay-at-home mom. And that’s a job that I’ll always love — a job that I’ll never let go. Although my body is somewhere else, my heart is always with my family.

(Warning: If you don’t like sappy, stop reading now.)

This year, our oldest is in third grade and our youngest is in first grade. It was the perfect time for me to go back to work. Both kids are in school full time, and it’s given me a new freedom to pursue a career outside the home.

But even with the excitement of landing my first teaching job, it’s been bittersweet.

I’ve always been there for my kids. I volunteered in their classrooms. If they were sick, I was home. Doctor’s appointments were covered. Their first steps? I saw them.

This year, when they got on the bus on the fist day of school, I missed it. I already was at work, getting my classroom ready. I’m thankful Todd was there with video camera in hand, capturing it all on tape, although it’s not quite the same when you’re not right beside the ones you love.

But I know I’m in a good place, and I’m where I need to be. I have a commitment to my classroom, and I love those children, too — all 24 of them.

The transition our family has gone through these past months has not always been easy. Without the support of Todd, Carter and Tatum, it would have been impossible.

I am learning to balance. In a sense, my family is now watching me take my first steps. Sometimes, I feel like I am a tightrope walker, just barely staying upright. I am grateful that when I look down, I have three amazing people holding the net, ready to catch me.

Captured on film: Our imperfect histories

Recently, while enjoying the Chihuly glass on display at Meijer Gardens, my son walked right in front of someone taking a picture. He was oblivious, and so I turned and apologized to the woman.

"Well, he'll forever be a part of your trip to Meijer Gardens," I started to say.

But before I could finish the sentence, the woman smiled and said, "Oh, don't worry. It's digital, you know. I can just delete that one."

For a millisecond, I was hurt: Hey, that's my son you're talking about. You can't delete him.

But I knew what she meant. It's easy to get rid of photos that don't turn out.

And that's exactly the problem with digital cameras.

Oh sure, there's a ton of good reasons to own digital cameras. We own two, and I do like their convenience. I can take pictures that day, put them on my computer and send photos to my friends or family via e-mail. It's easy. And with families living so far apart these days, it's something special, too.

Still, with digital photos, something is being missed.

My brother's good side

When I was growing up, I loved looking through our photo albums. One of those albums has a picture of my then 2-year-old brother on the beach visiting family in England. There is a another kid in the picture, and I remember asking who that little boy was. No one knew. It was just a child my brother played with that day. Just some random kid who made it into our family album.

But that photo helps tell the story of the day. It tells a little about who he was as a toddler. And even though I didn't see that side very often, I recognized through that picture my brother could play well with others and be nice.

These days, that kid would be cropped out or the photo deleted. There are no random shots.

What's the problem with that?

Maybe nothing. But maybe it is allowing us to create an untrue history of our lives. Or at least an incomplete one.

Hair and history
Or maybe I am just overly sensitive to photos. I have naturally curly hair. During the adolescent years, curly hair can be a cross to bear. I had four solid years of bad hair days. If I could have deleted photos of myself, I wouldn't have any proof that my teen years existed. Seriously.

Looking back, I laugh at that poor girl who had no idea what to do with that mass of curls. Those photos help me remember who I was then. They remind me of sitting in front my best friend's makeup table with her trying desperately to figure out how I could "do" my hair. They remind me that when I was in sixth grade, my mom signed me up for an after-school beauty course. (Yep, it was that bad.) They remind me of the time my friend ironed my hair with a clothing iron. That didn't work, either.

But such photos are more than just glimpses of my past. They remind me of who I have become and how I got here. They remind me of what a challenge I could be to my parents — and of how today I am so grateful for everything they've done. They remind me of the bad boyfriends I picked and the friends who were there through each and every bad hair day.

Good or bad, without these photos, an important part of my history would be lost.

Capturing a moment

The idea that you can hit delete without thinking through what you might erase concerns me. And yet, I do it, too.

When I was in kindergarten, I went to picture day wearing a brown dress that I hated. Over the summer, my grandma watched me for a few days and cut my hair — big time. Chopped it right off. As all the other girls bounced around with their hair neatly coiffed, I was sad.

When the photographer prompted me to "say cheese," I didn't even crack a smile. It was pathetic.

When my mom saw the pictures weeks later, she wanted retakes. So we tried again. They were just as bad. At that time in my life, no one was going to make me smile if I didn't want to.

Now, fast forward to the digital age.

In about a week, my kids' school will host its annual registration. While we are signing up for lunches and learning about our kids' teachers, a photographer will snap our kids' school pictures. The photographer uses a digital camera, and I get to stand and watch. He or she shows me the photo, and I say, "Mmm, nah. Let's try another." I could stand there annoying the person behind me as I try to get the "perfect" photo.

But maybe photos aren't supposed to be perfect. Maybe they are supposed to catch the essence of who we are in that moment. When I was in kindergarten, I was a pistol. If you saw me with a sweet, little smile, it wouldn't embody the truth of that time.

Photos are supposed to catch a moment in time. The happy, the sad, the silly moments that make up a life. You can't delete that.

Photo captions:

Photo one: Me and mom — Can't you just read my mom's mind? Oh yeah. These were the happy mother/daughter years.

Photo two: Me and friends — That's me standing in the background. Yes, I was cool, thank you very much. And so was my hair.

Photo three: Me in second grade — Not to be confused with my suspiciously misplaced kindergarten photos. This one was taken in second grade. Apparently my "no smile" phase was longer than I realized. And can you see the stain on the front of that sweater? Nice.

Wanna see awkward photos of other families that we should all be grateful didn't get deleted? Check out it out.