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.