1949-51 Nash Ambassador – similar to ours
It’s nearly midnight in July 1958. I’m 14 1/2 years old. We’ve been on the road from Savannah, Georgia, driving to the first-ever family reunion on my father’s side. Read the rest of this entry »
Fall 1969. Most of our first year back at the Bible College is a blur of activity and pregnancy. Our second child is on its way, and the clock is ticking down fast! We’re renting a house, thanks to a friend who hopes we’ll rent it the entire academic year.
D has new lectures to prepare every time he turns around. Our new son’s energy increases to warp speed. I have morning sickness for the first three months of pregnancy, and enjoy having Diane (Sister #3) hanging out with us. She took the photo above.
Then we start thinking. What if we had a house of our own and could move in well before our second child arrives? We start looking. We find it! Our friend isn’t happy when we tell him we’ll be moving out right after Christmas.
The house is brand new, in a growing subdivision where we know at least one of the families. Small, almost boxy, all on one floor, simple layout with lots of kitchen, dining and living room space for having guests over, and enough bedrooms for our growing family.
I have my usual doubts and fear about money running out or not being there at the end of the month. How do we know we can pay for it? And won’t we have to buy a lot of furniture? Indeed, we will.
Oh, one more thing. What will people think about us? Spending all this money? It seems I have fear about not having enough, and shame about having too much. Both are familiar old feelings from way back.
Part of me is excited about the new house. The other part feels guilty and even ashamed. I never felt guilt or shame when we lived in Mr. Griswold’s house. That was different. We weren’t paying for it. But now we’re using our hard-earned money to buy a house and brand new furniture?
When we were students at the Bible College, if you didn’t have a lot of money and lived by faith, you would surely be admired. In fact, asking people to pray that I’ll have enough money to buy a bar of soap was better than having too much money.
On the other hand, being well-off enough to afford a house could be dangerous to my spiritual health. That was the Bible College way. Am I trusting in God or trusting in money? Am I living by faith or living by my own earthly means?
When I was growing up, George Mueller’s example was often referred to and spoken of with great reverence. Here was a man of true faith—no income, an orphanage with children to feed every day, and nothing but prayer as the way to go. Mueller prayed, and food showed up when and as needed. Here’s a link to a children’s version of his story. Very interesting.
I didn’t get this way about money all by myself, you know. The mission organization with which my parents served for 15 years didn’t allow its members to have steady jobs or regular incomes from regular employment. Love offerings and honoraria were fine, but nothing was to take the place of living by faith.
This was also the theme of the Bible College. Living by faith was part of what they called “victorious Christian living.” The institution was funded through prayers and the unexpected gifts that ensued. This was better than the world’s way of depending on steady income instead of faith in God. Hence, too, the faculty allowance system instead of a guaranteed paycheck.
So signs that we might have more money than is absolutely necessary were still shameful to me. That included seemingly small things like trinkets that weren’t purchased for any practical use, or store-bought clothes (instead of altered hand-me-downs or home-made clothes).
And then there was that investment thing. Buying a house might be a wise investment. But to at least some, this was treading a fine line. Investment might be another form of gambling. Definitely not a sign of living by faith.
To be continued….
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 4 August 2015
Photo credit: DRenich, Fall 1969
This is the only formal portrait I have of my father’s family. It was taken in the early 1930s. When I was growing up, it was framed and sat in a prominent place in our house. Back then it was more a curiosity than a valuable piece of family history on my father’s side. Read the rest of this entry »
Ethel Ema Eckel, Feb 1889 – Jan 1918
This elegant woman has been frozen in my mind most of my life. Hanging on the wall just like this. I don’t know when this picture was taken.
I’ve seen only two other photos of her. One was taken a year after she married Read the rest of this entry »
California Grandpa & His Beautiful Women 1959
Dear Mom,
This photo always makes me smile! I don’t think I have another photo of all of us together with Grandpa. With the exception of our double wedding in 1965, I don’t think he visited us in Savannah except this once. He looks super dapper in his Sunday suit, starched white shirt with tie, and Palm Beach hat! Read the rest of this entry »
Don’t try to correct me
Just listen
Don’t tell me ‘the facts’
Just listen
Don’t interrogate, remind or debate me Read the rest of this entry »
Christmas in Savannah, 1968
Time for another show and tell! I’ve gone through hundreds of old photos lately, and have a few choice shots to show you. I promise not to do this every time you turn around. I also promise to do it again…. Read the rest of this entry »
Diane at our old house on the river, 1996
Regrets. This one grabbed my attention after I’d written my piece about Mom and Arnica Ointment. It all began in 1998 with a telephone call to let me know Mom had just had a stroke. The news immediately set off a firestorm of self-recrimination in me. Here’s why.
In late 1998, two months before Mom’s stroke, she and Dad flew to Houston to visit Diane and her family. I’d flown to Houston two days earlier–the first time I’d visited Diane since she had gone on a ventilator.
Even though I’d been there before, I wasn’t ready for the sound of this monster machine pumping, wheezing and making noise night and day. Add to that the agony of never hearing Diane’s voice again.
Two days later I drove to the airport to pick up our parents. Mom was in a wheelchair. She was wearing a new, unobtrusive microphone that picked up and projected her weak voice. Suitcases were piled high on a cart. Some filled with equipment to ease Mom’s increasing difficulties with post-polio syndrome.
Mom and Dad’s visit with Diane was painfully difficult. They didn’t seem to know how to relate to her, given dramatic changes in Diane’s ability to communicate.
Two years earlier in March 1996, Diane, her husband and daughter drove to Savannah for a small family reunion. We all knew Diane had ALS, and that this was her last trip to Savannah.
There were awkward moments, especially when Mom choked more than once while trying to swallow food. We all knew Mom wasn’t well. Nonetheless, the visit was happy, a nostalgic stroll down memory lane.
We drove downtown to see the old grade school we sisters attended, and where Mom taught kindergarten. We also drove out to our old house on the river, seen in the photo above, sandbar peeking through at low tide.
Diane’s body already showed limitations from ALS. Yet they were nothing compared to what she now lived with, just over two years later.
Here are a few excerpts from my Houston journal that describe what I observed in my parents in late 1998.
Silence and sadness and inability to speak. . . .Very uncomfortable to watch. . . .Neither of them [my parents] knowing what to say or how to act. Awkward.
The air was heavy with longing and with stunned silence. Not knowing what to do or how to relate. Sometimes projecting onto Diane thoughts and feelings that seemed to keep them from admitting their own sense of grief and helplessness.
I tried to help bridge the gap, but it didn’t work. I felt stuck. Unable to move things forward. Nothing about this visit felt normal—even though we were all dealing with the new normal.
My parents were there for five days. On the sixth day, Diane’s daughter and I drove them to the airport. I wasn’t sure how I would tell them goodbye. A lot of old buttons got pushed in me during this visit, and I was relieved that they were returning home.
Still, the thought of my parents negotiating the airport alone weighed heavily on my mind. I was about to suggest we park and go in with them when Mom spoke up. She said she didn’t want us to go in with them because she didn’t like goodbyes.
So we dropped them off at the curbside check-in and left them there. Two very frail human beings. As we drove away I had second thoughts.
Two months later I got the call about Mom’s stroke. I’d talked on the phone with her once since the Houston trip. It was my last verbal conversation with Mom.
For years I blamed myself for not parking and going into the terminal. Strangely, it seems Mom’s stroke and my arnica ointment helped ease the way for both of us–even though it was late.
Perhaps that’s how I discovered what I wanted to say to her, and how. Still, I prefer earlier goodbyes. And fewer regrets.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 6 July 2015
Photo credit: DAFraser, March 1996
To Dad with Love from Elouise
Dear Dad,
I wasn’t going to write about this today. But when I woke up this morning it was already on my mind. So here goes.
Over a year ago I began wondering how I would answer questions like these:
I often feel left out when I hear daughters, not just sons, thanking their fathers for being their mentors, their best friends, their coaches in life and their faithful cheerleaders. Sometimes they tell stories about how this happened. Do I have stories like this?
When I was young I was proud that you were a preacher and that you’d gone to college. Besides, you could fix just about anything in the world, and knew the Latin names of most every plant in the world. And could recite poem after poem by heart.
As an adult, I’ve always said I inherited from you a love of theology. Because I became a theologian, this was important to me. Something that set you apart from most other fathers.
At the same time, it was never easy to answer questions about your influence in my life. So when I began my list of things we share, I thought it would be a short list. I also wanted to think about you differently—without denying our sometimes unhappy history as father and daughter. In the end, the list was longer than I thought it would be, and brought back some happy memories.
When I woke up this morning I started asking myself some What If questions. Most of the time I stay away from What Ifs. They don’t seem to get me anywhere, and end up making me even more unhappy than I already was. Besides, they don’t change What Is—what I must live with each day.
Still, my What If questions wouldn’t go away. Here’s how I’m thinking about it.
So back to you and me. What if you had taken a different approach with me?
When I was growing up I watched you relate to children and teenagers not in our immediate family. You seemed to be a different person! They loved you. They experienced you as their friend and cheerleader. They weren’t afraid of you the way I was. You were firm with them, but not harsh and unyielding.
I wanted you to relate that way with me. Sometimes this happened a bit when our family went on long road trips. They forced us out of our tired, predictable patterns.
Going to summer camps as a family was a bit like this, too. Not exactly the same, but enough to convince me that I’d rather be traveling or camping with you than living in a house with all those Thou Shalt Nots.
I don’t know why you chose to be strict and judgmental. You said you didn’t want me to grow up to be angry like your father was. Today I wonder what it was about you (not about me) that kept you from treating me differently. Since I saw you relating to other children, I know you had the skills to be a different kind of parent.
I used to think your parenting approach was my fault. I don’t think that anymore. I also don’t know whether a different approach would have been possible for you. Either way you’re still my father, and I’m not about to disown you.
Love and a hug,
Elouise
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 1 July 2015
Photo credit: DAFraser, March 2015, Longwood Gardens
Sister #2, Elouise, Mom, Diane on sandbar. Our dock and boathouse are just above my head, to the left. Summer 1951
Dear Dad,
Today marks the fifth-year anniversary of your death. Not a long time, yet it feels like an age ago. Like the photo above. Do you remember that day? It was 1951, our first year living on the river in the Deep South. Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth 