And Then There Were Three

This month marks the one-year anniversary of the death of Alice Ogden, who passed on August 18, 2012 after a six month battle with esophageal cancer.  As a mother, mother-in-law and grandmother, she fulfilled many roles.  Some she did well, others not so much.

 

For my wife, Alice's passing created a void that had been filled by her mother for more than fifty years.  Now Liz was facing life without either parent, and it was time to stand on her own.  To make decisions without the wisdom and guidance she got from her parents.  To handle family matters on her own.

As the only girl -- now a woman, with two brothers -- it was time to move on.

Losing a parent is difficult.  Liz lost her dad from a stroke when she was thirty.  I lost my dad at a much later age, although I feel I lost him to illness much earlier.  In both cases, our mothers carried on, maintaining a sense of family, with brothers and sisters returning home to celebrate holidays and birthdays.  Our mothers made a point to be there for special events like graduations, band concerts and baseball games.

What happens to the meaning of family when the second parent dies?  Does it vanish, like fog on a cool summer morning?  Do the remaining siblings become something else that has no glue holding everyone together?  How do you plan for the holidays, and where do you go when "my" family is replaced by "our" family?

My wife's family was living in Monroe, Wisconsin when I met her.  Don and Alice Ogden lived in a big house (at least by my humble standards) with high ceilings, pocket doors, an elaborate staircase banister , and a corner fireplace.  We used to have picnics in the back yard, make our own ice cream and go into New Glarus, WI to eat wienerschnitzel, roesti and cheese fondue.

As an outsider, I viewed Liz's family much like I did my own.  The stories I heard around the dinner table or on long vacations spent in the same car, provided the nucleus of your typical American family.  Fights between brothers were broken up by dad.  Mom was there to bake birthday cakes and to help sew Halloween costumes.

I began to feel like family when Liz and I moved to Grand Rapids, Michigan and received her parents into our new home.  At times, Liz and I commented on how it seemed like we were following in their footsteps since they had lived in Benton Harbor, Michigan when Liz was just a baby.  Their visits to our Michigan home were never long, but eventful, almost like they needed to squeeze every minute out of the trip.  When Liz went into labor with our first child, a call went out to Alice, who hurried to Grand Rapids to spend time with her new grandson.

On a few occasions, we crossed Lake Michigan on the SS Badger to meet Liz's parents in Kewaunee, Wisconsin to hand off our son, Matt, while we spent the week (or weekend) in Door County.  I think the exchange was as good for them as it was for us.  A photo of Don's face, watching Matt standing in a makeshift swimming pool with his diaper sagging to his knees, remains one of my favorites.  Our expanding family soon became the Ogden family, as Alice would call Matt "one of her boys."  I suspect she did until the day she died.

When we moved back to Wisconsin, Alice would visit and help with the kitchen remodel or give her opinion on the finished basement.  She even helped me build a wood fence that took all summer to complete.  Family picnics that were commonplace in Monroe, magically moved to La Crosse and Pettibone Park on the banks of the Mississippi River.

Family time bound us together and to Alice's credit, she made sure everyone got together as often as possible.  But much like the thread used to sew those early Halloween costumes, it began unraveling with the passing of Liz's dad and the eventual sale of their credit bureau business.

Years later, following a minor stroke of her own, Alice moved to La Crosse to be closer to Liz and our family.  Their relationship, strained at times, had many ups and downs before Alice felt the need to return home -- one final time -- to spend her remaining years with her brothers and friends in Iowa.

Liz spent a lot of time with her mother after the discovery of cancer.  She was there for its diagnosis, treatment and finally, its victory.  She would travel over to Ankeny, Iowa to visit and put things in order.  One of the cool things she did was research her parent's past through ancestry.com where she created a family tree and browsed through genealogy records including census, SSDI and military records.  She also spent time having conversations with Alice's remaining brothers and sister and would get them to write to her by mail.   Liz would scour through hundreds of old photographs, letters written by her grandfather, and listen to her mom talk about her long journey through life.

When the pain became unbearable for Alice, she was moved to a hospice house, where she spent the final few weeks of her life.  It was in that quiet room, with a window overlooking a potted geranium, that Liz, Eric and Kevin -- family once again -- watched their mother slide slowly from their lives.

 

We all have stereotypical images of our parents.  As children, they are loving, wise and comforting.  As teenagers, they become more authoritative, setting rules about staying out late, dating and doing our homework.  As adults, they finally become more human -- if that's the word -- with their flaws, concerns and struggles with failing health.

As the first anniversary of her death approaches, I wonder what Liz is thinking.  Do the pictures ease the pain, smooth out the rough edges, and re-sketch forgotten parts of her life that are so quickly forgotten?  Do the letters written by Alice's brothers and sister help refill the void?

One thing I do know is that time stops for no one.  We are born into this world, and somewhere it is written in God's book when we will leave.

She was born  on November 7, 1936, in New Providence, Iowa during the Great Depression. She had two sisters, Elizabeth and Bobbie, and two brothers, Carl and Joe.  She remained a true Iowan even when she married Don and moved to Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin and eventually back to Iowa.  Her parents shared the same characteristics and traits that made Alice the person I knew.  Proud of her immigrant heritage, educated, hard working, politically active and frugal with her money.

An early journey to rural Sigourney, Iowa (where Don is buried) gave me an understanding of what growing up in Iowa must have been like for Alice.  Flat, hot and surrounded by remnants of better times, Sigourney paints a picture of the Great Depression in our modern world today.

But, as the letters from her brothers and sister stated, they didn't seem to mind.  Instead they made a better life for themselves, went to war, (or worked in support of the war) and moved up the social and economic ladder as opportunities presented themselves.  While, Alice and her siblings never left the Midwest for long, they were rich in knowledge of exotic places far away through books they read, movies they watched and letters they received from friends.

Alice gave meaning to the phrase "Iowa proud" and reminded me of it when Liz and I told her about a play we saw at the La Crosse Community Theater called "Leaving Iowa."  It was a national award winning comedy about a family who took their annual vacations in Iowa.  Liz and I found it hilarious, but Alice didn't seem to find it nearly as funny as we did.

The passing of a parent, and eventually both parents, completes a cycle of birth, growth and death that has been going on for generations.  It's a passage that brings joy, pride and sorrow if you are lucky enough to have your parent(s) live long enough.  I know some people that still have both parents living, others who lost their dad as teenagers and some who never met their mother or father.

Alice always used to say that she never thought she'd live long enough to see her grandsons graduate high school.  Later that changed to college, which for one of our sons came true.  Despite her prediction of an early demise, she was able to enjoy five weddings, nine grandchildren, and travel throughout the world with her family.

It is a reality that all of us must make, as we face the world without our parents.  A reality that makes us move on, become adults and lead our own families to greater and better things.

Rest in peace, Alice.  Your family is doing just fine.

Paddle This Old River Blue

The sunlight reflects off the water, showcasing a shimmering streak of diamonds that sparkle their way toward the city of La Crosse.  Above us, the sky is a robin's egg blue, with only a few, puffy white clouds disturbing its perfect consistency.

 

Liz and I are idling down the Mississippi River in our 20-foot Bennington pontoon boat, drinking our favorite adult beverage and listening to the inspired songs of Santana.  To our side the Minnesota bluffs gently rise above the small towns of La Crescent, Dresbach and Dakota.  Occasional outcroppings of limestone and rock break up their dense green covering.  

These bluffs have been watching over this twisting river for centuries -- long before Martin Luther would post his ninety-five propositions to the Catholic Church in 1517, and later as Michelangelo's paint was drying on the Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel.

The Mississippi River is well worth traversing.  When floating on its muddy surface, it doesn't seem to be anything but ordinary.  But it is not -- quite the contrary.

Using the Missouri River as part of its main branch, it is one of the longest rivers in the world -- four thousand three hundred miles.  It discharges three times as much water as the St Lawrence, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine, and three hundred and thirty-eight times as much water as the Thames.  No other river has so vast a drainage-basin.  It draws its water supply from thirty-one states and territories -- from Delaware on the Atlantic seaboard, and from all the country between that and Idaho in the west.

The Mississippi receives and carries to the Gulf of Mexico water from fifty-four subordinate rivers that are navigable by boat, and from some hundreds that are navigable by canoes and kayaks.  The area of its drainage-basin (1,837,000 square miles) is as great as the combined areas of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Italy and Turkey.

This summer is a rebirth for me.  It has brought back a flood of memories of my earlier times on the river.  As a shadow, cast by the canopy above our heads, shifts to the front of the boat, I realize it has been more than 30 years since I last captained a boat on these ageless waters.  

Time, like the waters beneath our twin pontoons, continues unabated by location, education and family.  



As a child, my father would take my brother, sisters and I fishing for crappies, northern pike and sunfish on the Mississippi.  Much of the fishing was off the main channel, back into the marshy sloughs and tributaries that were populated by tall river grass, duckweed and waterlilies.  Sometimes, we would challenge my dad's boating expertise by maneuvering over wing dams -- rocking back and forth as the waters churned about us -- while fishing for the elusive rock bass.

I remember getting up early one morning to trap turtles, standing on the seat of our aluminum fishing boat, holding a barbed spear -- readying my throw.  The food we used to trap turtles was carp, which were rolling and splashing all around me.  It was easy picking and exciting to launch the spear, watching it fly through the early morning mist to its destination.  With a pull on the rope still in the boat, I would drag back the carp, then throw it into the bottom of the boat, where it would kick and twist until it died. I would stand there (breathing in the smell of water, fish and algae) and raise my eyes to the horizon.  From my vantage point in the boat, I could see the ever-present bluffs -- sometimes green, sometimes orange and yellow -- surrounding the Mississippi River and the Coulee region.

By the time I was a teenager, my fishing tackle was replaced with a cooler full of beer and pop.  My fishing gear was now a pair of swimming trunks, and the gentle "put-put" of my father's fishing boat was replaced by the roar of a much larger ski boat and its 260 HP Mercruiser.  A soggy mid-morning meal of braunschweiger sandwiches was now a decidedly unhealthy bag of chips and dip.  Many an afternoon was spent floating in the backwaters of the Mississippi, dreaming of cute girls in bikinis and listening to the youthful sounds of Bruce Springsteen, Chicago and Rush.

 

In the years since, I went away to college, married a wonderful woman, moved to Michigan to start a family and returned home to find a place I never thought I'd enjoy again.  After almost 30 years, I find myself floating on the mighty river that is as much a part of the city of La Crosse as its streets, bluffs and people.

When Liz and I were looking at buying a boat this spring, we decided on a pontoon boat.  Our youngest son Sean would probably disagree -- since he likes speed and a steady stream of spray cascading over the bow of the boat -- but the slow ride of a pontoon makes it perfect for entertaining, tubing and idling up and down the river.

We have had our friends on the river numerous times, sometimes to travel into the backwaters or sometimes to travel up the river to the Dresbach locks and dam.  We've discovered new locations to eat along the sides of the river, behind its bends and turns and off the heavily travelled main branch.

A trip south to Genoa can take an hour (or less if you open the throttle), and along the way you will see bald eagles soaring overhead or perched on a dead tree limb waiting for its meal.  Along the shallow shores you can find blue herons, stoically standing watch as our boat floats by.  The river serves as a major migratory route for water fowl and waterbirds.  In the fall, Tundra swans descend on the backwaters near Stoddard, WI and its neighboring Goose Island habitat.

We are fortunate to live at the junction of three rivers, with the Black and La Crosse rivers running into the Mississippi.  While the lazy La Crosse River provides a wonderful backdrop through the marshy lands near the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, anything larger than a kayak or small canoe will have trouble getting far.  The Black River, on the other hand, is prime property for condos and water houses, which dot the shores with their faded yellows, blues and reds.  On a typical afternoon you will find people lounging in their chairs (or even recliners) watching boats travel up and down the passage that connects the upper Black River to the Mississippi channel.

On this particular day, Liz and I are returning from the upper reaches of the Black River, idling through a no wake zone.  As we approach a railroad bridge used by the Canadian Pacific Railway to cross the Black and Mississippi rivers, we are given a brief reprieve from the summer's humidity and heat.  At times, we are able to watch as a train rumbles overhead, heading to Minnesota, the Dakotas and finally to the western United States.  If I breathe deep enough, I can smell tar, steamy and sticky, that has long ago bubbled up on the bridge's beams, heated by a relentless summer sun.

It's amazing the number of times you can make the same trip on the Mississippi, yet see something different every time.

Mark Twain, that great connoisseur of life on the Mississippi River, talked about the face of the water representing a wonderful book.  A book that contains a dead language to the uneducated passenger, but when told by those who travel its length, a book of secrets delivering its most cherished secrets as clearly as if it uttered them with a voice.  And it's a book, that if opened every day, should not be thrown aside, for it tells a different story every time.  As proof, on some days we will find a hidden bend that appears magically, opening into a secluded tributary that leaves one feeling like they're miles away from home.

Today's river traffic consists of pontoon boats like ours, fishing boats, powerful speed boats and cruisers that I think are better suited for oceans or seas.  Barges -- hauling coal, corn and oats -- are commonplace as the price of fuel continues to climb.

 

I wonder what Mark Twain would say about the river today.  His musings about mighty steamboats surging up the Mississippi, of a golden era with lavish parties, expensive gowns, top hats and traveling musicians on board, paint an exciting picture that seems impossible to believe.  Did Louis Armstrong ("Stardust") and Bix Beiderbecke ("Singing The Blues") really play to audiences on Mississippi River paddle wheelers?

In a nod to the nostalgia of these old steamers, La Crosse provides docking to the Julia Bel Swain and occasionally the American Queen and Delta Queen.  The size and elegance of these boats draw passengers from throughout the world as they paddle their way from New Orleans, Louisville and Ohio.

Today, life on the Mississippi River has become much more commonplace, accessible to rich and poor. Where plantations and many of the country's early millionaires once lived, there are now casinos and small towns abandoned by an era that has moved on without them.

Perhaps that is one of the biggest reasons I have returned to the river -- it harkens back to a simpler time.  Before cell phones and computers ruled our lives, there was a way to escape the ties to humanity and its interminable pressure.  The gentle sway of waves, or the sudden swell from the wake of a barge take your mind off the client or patient who demands the impossible.  Its graceful curves, with reflected images of sunsets, woody heights and soft distances dissolve the worries of the day and give promise to a new day.

Life on the Mississippi is good.  Always has been and always will be.

"I'm growing tired of the big city lights
Tired of the glamour and tired of the sights
In all my dreams I am roaming once more
Back to my home on the old river shore
I am sad and weary, far away from home
Miss the Mississippi and you."

- Emmylou Harris