Rearview Mirror |

Rebuilding my village

Posted on October 21, 2009 by 8junebugs

The anniversary of Mom’s death is approaching, and I find myself in a very contemplative and emotional place most of the time. As the duties of managing the estate wind down, I find that “moving forward” isn’t quite what I thought it would be.

It’s better, mostly. Instead of growing pains, it feels more like self-inflicted turbulence upon re-entry.

I thought I had it all figured out. I had this experience of family that I thought was complete. What I didn’t realize was that, although my experience of family wasn’t exactly wrong, it had been manipulated. It was incomplete, and a lot of what I felt growing up resulted from that incompleteness.

See, Mom wanted to be the favorite. (So did her mother, I’ve been told, and where else do we learn how to be?) She wanted to be the favorite child, the favorite sister, the favorite parent, the favorite aunt. She liked being the cool mom, the fun mom, and wanting to be that extended to wanting her side of the family to be viewed that way, as well.

Proximity helped. When KidBrother and I and all of our cousins were little, our two sets of grandparents lived three miles apart on one dirt road. I remember things being more even then — most of the trips to Lake Dunmore (Branbury Beach) were with Mom’s family, but there were plenty of weekend afternoons and family dinners at Memere and Pepere’s farm.

(I didn’t know this until I found another baby book, but my first 4-word sentence was “Want to ride Cleo.” Cleo and Ginger were the horses-in-residence at the farm, the long-time companions of Uncle Paul and Aunt Sue.)

Then Pepere died and Memere moved into town, and the whole family started to spread out a bit. Mom built up the shop and worked long hours, and we built the pool and spent more time in that than at the lake. By virtue of being nearby, the Whipples were always around more often.

And then we moved, too…and Mom moved back, eventually for good. I can recognize why, when we all came back to visit from California, she would want to spend as much time as possible with her side of the family. Expanding on that, “more time with her side of the family” became more time with her when I was the only one still living out of state.

It wasn’t that she campaigned actively against the Gingras side. She just…supported affection for her family and encouraged the idea that they were the fun ones, the ones who knew us best, the ones who were comfortable and accepting. She encouraged us to visit Memere, but only out of obligation: “She’s your grandmother.” It was a chore, that way, and she would magnanimously let us off the hook from it sometimes, even though we were adults.

I don’t know how much of that was deliberate, and it doesn’t really matter now.

I’m realizing now, though – or remembering — how much fun Dad’s side of the family was when I was a kid, and why.

The “why” is what bothers me.

I’ve always said that the reason I stayed in California, the reason I fought to stay out there even as Mom was trying to get us to go back to Vermont, is that I was comfortable being myself out there. In Vermont, around Mom’s family, I tended to be the only one who liked school (loved it, really), who would rather read than play outdoors. I wasn’t afraid of tests and I generally did my homework. I latched onto the first computer that showed up in the classroom.

I was just…different. Nerdy.

It wasn’t just in Mom’s family. At sixth grade graduation, each person in my class of 20 got a pin labeling us for how we’d been known. Some of the boys got “Leader.” Some got “Athlete,” I think. Jenny Roberts got “Artist” (which…duh).

I got “Bookworm.”

It’s not like it wasn’t true. The elementary school librarian gave me my library “card” when I left (the list of the books I’d checked out in the six years I’d been there) — it was about an inch of cards stapled together. I went through the children’s section of the Ilsley Library that way, too, begging a ride to town as soon as I finished a book so I could read something else. I spent most of the money I earned at the Vermont Book Store, where the floorboards still creeeeak accusingly underfoot, even if you’re only looking for the next Sweet Valley High book.

That’s just who I was. It’s still who I am. But it was so uncool.

What I discovered in Pleasanton was that it was okay to want to study and be smart. No one thought I was weird for liking school. The cool kids were still athletes and cheerleaders — it was high school, after all — but those kids were also in my AP and honors classes, and sometimes they wore glasses! I didn’t necessarily fit in any better, but the ways in which I sometimes stood out didn’t make people snicker and call me a teacher’s pet. (Not that Foothill’s the World’s Best High School, but it was worlds away from where I started.)

Even when I went back to live with Mom for a bit in my 20s, there were…expectations. If I was at home, I was expected to be out in the kitchen or living room with everyone else, talking or watching TV, or talking over whatever was on TV. Reading in my room was considered rude, and Mom would come looking for me. I started knitting (before it was cool) just so I would have something to do in front of the TV, even though I would rather have just picked up a book.

What I might have noticed, had I continued to spend equal time with both sides of the family after the age of 10, is that I wasn’t weird at all, that my bookworminess and related curiosity just corresponded more to the other half of my DNA. It doesn’t make either side better or worse or smarter or dumber than the other…it just means I might not have felt the way I did as I got older.

My experience of my adolescent self might have been entirely different.

The decisions I made in the 90s — and the people who became part of my own little tribe — are my own, and I don’t regret them in any way. Part of building a family out of friends came of thinking that I needed to, though. That I was out of place in what I perceived as my family.

I wasn’t out of place at all…just out of touch.

Filed under: A life less ordinary, G-Clan, If it's not one thing, it's your mother, Rearview Mirror | 2 Comments »

Unearthed

Posted on September 9, 2009 by 8junebugs

1. A letter from my great-grandmother, Grandma Whipple, to my parents in the summer of 1975. It begins “Dear Children,” but is clearly written to my mother after a visit. My parents had broken ground on the house and Mom had talked with Grandma W about wanting to have children right away. Grandma W urges her to be patient — she didn’t get pregnant right away, either. The letter also addresses the issue of my uncle, who had just knocked up his girlfriend at 16. “Don’t be too hard on him,” Grandma W advises. “He is just trying to show all of you that he is a man.” She is clearly pulling for the young couple.

2. A story I wrote titled, “My Grandfather Died.” Also my recorder (in its case), my flag and rifle from color guard, various NKOTB posters and ephemera, and every school notebook I had between 1st grade and 12th.

3. Commencement announcements and programs for the MUHS Class of 1971. Neither of my parents, for the record, were honors students. Also found: A scrapbook containing the graduation story from several local papers and the cards my mother received upon graduating…38 years ago.

4. Aunt Anna’s photo albums (Anna Parker was my great-aunt, my Grand’s sister). In these photo albums, we see that Uncle George, their brother, was always at least 50 years old. There’s also a picture or two of Sarah, the sister they lost when they were young. I don’t remember how she died.

5. Dad’s report card from a year at St. Mary’s School v1.0 (all As and Bs, in spite of item 3). His was the last class to graduate St. Mary’s before it closed. It re-opened as a Roman Catholic school in 1999 (K the O teaches music), but I’m not sure if it’s still a parish school. It’s no longer run by nuns, though, which is likely an improvement.

6. Photos from Mom’s pageants. She was Dairy Princess one year (I think it was just for Addison County), as well Miss Vermont World (I don’t think they even have this contest anymore…?). That’s right. I’m the daughter of a beauty queen whose legs went up to her freaking ears. NO PRESSURE.

7. Christmas photos that show my Uncle Marc as a child (as well as my dad, Uncle Paul, and Aunt Marianne looking very 1970s). These photos disprove my theory that my cousin Aaron looks like his mother’s side — he does look like his dad, just like a very early version of his dad.

8. The cast of of my teeth before braces. Dad has asked to display this on his mantle, not unlike the tusks of an African safari trophy. He did pay to fix the teeth, so…

9. Every school photo ever given to my mother. Ever. Each frame was like a treasure chest, too – whenever we took out the visible photo, another one was stored behind it.

10. Ad booklets for exotic dancers and escorts from the Reno trip my parents took with Uncle Steve and his first wife. Whether they saw some boobs on that trip or not, I’m fairly confident they brought the booklets back for shock value…and then they were packed away in a manilla envelope in a box that was moved to California, moved back to Vermont, and stored for me to find after Mom’s death. W00t.

Filed under: A life less ordinary, If it's not one thing, it's your mother, Rearview Mirror | Leave a Comment »

Bzzzzzzz

Posted on July 10, 2009 by 8junebugs

Today is National Don’t Step on a Bee Day. I don’t know what your community is doing to celebrate, but Alexandrians can head down to Buzz Bakery on Slaters Lane (mmm, red velvet cupcakes) for bee-themed treats. There’s a free-beeeeee for the kids, too, while supplies last.

I used to spend summers working with bees buzzing around and landing on my hands. I worked (starting at the age of 8 or 9) with my oldest friend and her mother (my “sister” Rach and my Maralee-mommy) making shaved ice at fairs and events around Vermont. Not the packed sno-cones you get at the stands run by carnies, the ones with flavors that all taste like lipstick–real Hawaiian shaved ice, with, at one point, more flavors than Baskin Robbins.

In the early years, we used squeeze bottles for the flavors, which, just so you’re aware, required five pounds of white sugar per gallon. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have a shaved ice whenever you can…I generally do…but, you know. Brush your teeth.

Between leaks, stray squirts, and moving quickly to keep customers happy, it only didn’t take long for our hands to turn brown from the sugar and the mixed artifical colors. If you were a bee, which stand would you flock to? Every Memorial Day, Independence Day, County Fair, Reggae Fest, Aquafest, and points between, there we were, making sugared ice bombs with up to 10 bees on our hands at any given time.*

It scared the shit out of the customers. We learned to stay calm and be careful. Eventually, we started using hard plastic bottles with liquor spouts. Between that and the fact that Rach and I got stronger, faster, and more coordinated, and the bottles and our hands stayed cleaner.

In the seven or eight years I worked for Rainbow Ice, I only got stung once. We were taking down the canopy after a long, long day at some event (they all blended together after a while), and one lone bee was stuck up in a corner of the tarp. He was trapped, I put my hand in, and I couldn’t really blame him. Fortunately, there was ice handy.

Hence, I learned that bees aren’t evil or scary and couldn’t care less about stinging you. If you’re allergic to the stings (and KidBrother was…deathly so), I can understand being fearful, but otherwise? Just bugs. Cute and helpful ones. Don’t step on them.

(more…)

Filed under: Rearview Mirror | 1 Comment »

The First Year

Posted on January 6, 2009 by 8junebugs

I started 8junebugs.com a year ago today, knowing only that I needed to write. Or, more accurately, write again. It was time to blog out in the open.

I didn’t start with a content plan. I didn’t know that I would be tackling a metric ton of Big Ass Life Events in rapid succession, although I suppose one could argue that nothing that happened this year was a complete surprise:

The Divorce
People who’ve known me a long time or who know me very well (or both) were not surprised when I left my ex-husband. Those people were, thank all the gods, blessedly mum with the I-told-you-so’s. Mostly. The truth is, no one really told me so (unless you count the FOCUSS test the priest made us take, but postponing was…not an option). I might have known early on that marrying him was not the right decision for me, but very few people ever call me on making a bad decision. Frankly, I didn’t need anyone to tell me…I already knew, and it didn’t stop me.

The New Guy Who’s Not New, Not Even Remotely
Given our history and the opportunity, I don’t think it was a huge surprise to anyone that G. and I reunited. We’ve done it before. This time, it’s a far more conscious decision, a deliberate commitment to what we are together. There’s no more “we’ll see what happens” — we’ll choose what we make happen, as much as we can. But I think Tammy’s “It’s about time!” was not the only response of its kind among those who’ve known either of us over the last decade and a half.

Mom’s Diagnosis and Death (a story in three parts)
Mom dying of lung cancer was a foregone conclusion — there’s no getting around that, at least for me. I’ve got a relative who thinks the fumes from the salon chemicals had a hand in it, that busting her sternum a couple years ago somehow triggered the cancer…but I think most can agree that poor health choices, a genetic predisposition, and smoking as much as a pack and a half a day over 35 years set this course in motion long ago. It doesn’t make me any less sad and I’m sure I’ll also have moments of blinding anger about the part she could certainly have controlled — but it wasn’t a surprise. She was already on borrowed time, and we’re all lucky to have the memories we do of brighter days with her.

(That said, I continue to reserve the right to lose my shit. It’s only been two months.)

The Temporary Roommate
The Roomie moved out before Christmas. It worked for what it was and it was meant to be a short-term solution, but I think I may have reached that point where I should limit the people I live with to the man in my life and anyone we create. The Roomie and I are still friends and I wish her all the best on her upcoming assignment — and I hope the move back whence she came is less traumatic.

A lot has come out of this year, and the blessings continue to outweigh the burdens. I am more myself now than I have been in almost 10 years. I am able to love and be loved again. I am, in spite of everything, very, very happy.

So, happy 1st birthday, blog! And many thanks to everyone for joining me in carefully excavating my navel, plucking out the lint, and examining it under a microscope. I would not presume to predict what the universe has in store for me for the coming year, but I do hope that posts in 2009 will be a little heavier on the Things To Celebrate than Things To Mourn.

Heavy on the snark, of course…

Filed under: Internets, jen v3.0, Rearview Mirror | Leave a Comment »

Putting things right, that once went wrong

Posted on January 1, 2009 by 8junebugs

…and hoping that the next leap will be the leap home.

Home.

Home doesn’t have to be a place. It can be a scent, a memory, a taste…a person. When they say home is where your heart is, “they” don’t always tell you that it can move and change, and even get lost for a while.

My heart belongs — has always been most at home — with someone I’ve loved since I was 16 years old. I didn’t know then that it was forever. Who does, at 16?

By the time I hit 22, at least I knew the love was forever. We spent a little time apart, here and there, mostly because I would feel like I needed something specific, something I didn’t know I had because the packaging wasn’t what I thought it would be. But we always found each other again, by accident or by design, and when we did, we were happy.

That last time I wandered off…that was the worst. I’d hit that point in a girl’s life when the long-term relationship with the love of your life is expected to become Something Else. There “should” be Jewelry, and Cohabitation, and a Minister, and Cake. And I bought into it. I was horrifically confused between what was making me happy and what I was “supposed to” want from it, and the result of that was a lot of fighting about nothing. Was I — were we — ready for that Next Step? No. And I was the one who decided I couldn’t wait.

I am still not good with the waiting, but I am trying. Back then, I chose between the Who and the What based on the When. I chose…poorly.

Hear me clearly, if you are ever in this position: the What and the When are inconsequential with the right Who.

“Whoever” is not a valid option. Not if you want to be happy.

Unexpectedly, and not a little courageously, The One that Got I Pushed Away reached out when he heard about my divorce. Not to gloat, not to reconcile…just to offer condolences and support. He was alone as well, starting over, healing from a relationship that had ended badly. Though 2,500 miles away from each other and out of contact for seven years, we caught up quickly — there’s a lot that doesn’t change, and we are not exactly new to each other.

(He was astonished to hear that my cousin is now the mother of three and stepmother of three more, but that’s the standard reaction.)

For all that we were apart and had tried our best with other relationships, neither of us forgot how happy we’d been together. How could we? In some ways, it was clearer than ever — perhaps how well someone understands, complements, and loves you isn’t obvious until you’ve tried to expect the equivalent from someone else. Maybe that’s when you realize what you’ve really lost.

Through what I can only see as grace (and perhaps the well-timed meddling of a dear and much-loved friend to both of us…), we have a chance to restore what we lost. We’ve managed to clear the air and forgive, and to find ourselves again in each other’s eyes.

I am grateful for the forgiveness, but I don’t think we’ll forget. We’ve come together again as though we were never apart, but we were apart — forgetting the reasons just makes it easier to repeat those mistakes and drift away from each other. So we’ll remember how we got here, cherish what we have again, and look ahead based on who we are, rather than on what we’re expected to be.

Without further ado…

(more…)

Filed under: jen v3.0, Rearview Mirror | 2 Comments »

My own personal Time Machine

Posted on November 30, 2008 by 8junebugs

Courtesy of the first unitasker to enter my home in a while:

With Pepere Gingras

With Josie, my first puppy

In my aunt's wedding, 100 years ago. Or 25. Whichever.

Filed under: Rearview Mirror | 6 Comments »

Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

Posted on November 26, 2008 by 8junebugs

It is not unusual, these days, for me to cry a little on the way home from work. I used to talk to Mom on the afternoon commute, and I’m at a bit of a loss on the GW Parkway right now.

It is also not unusual for me to cry over Human Interest stories involving the incoming First Family. Since the election, I have felt the most raw, emotional sense of renewal and faith in leadership that I can remember. I think a lot of us are a little in love with the Obamas right now.

Combine that with a migraine and a fantastic piece on NPR about Michelle Obama’s mother moving into the White House with the family, and I smiled and sniffled all the way home.

My ex-husband used to say that I talked about my Grand the way he talked about his mom and seemed to find it strange. What I could never explain is how she never supplanted my parents or even tried to parent me — she grandparented me, and that’s just Not The Same Thing. (But it may be why, when HRC came out with It Takes a Village, I already knew she was right.)

KidBrother and I were raised tribally on what I like to call The Whipple Compound. There was the farm, where my grandparents lived (so, often, did my aunt and my cousin). The hill behind the farm was a cow pasture — on one side of the pasture was our house, on the other was my Uncle Steve’s.

Actually, his house and ours are still there. The farm fell out of the family and became a Historical Homestead Property, or something along those lines. Colonial Pioneer Quaker Frontier Farmers used to dance on the pine floors, I hear…

(more…)

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It’s a small world, after all

Posted on November 13, 2008 by 8junebugs

At the memorial service for my mother last week, in addition to the family, my friends, and my brother’s friends:

One of my old babysitters.
That babysitter’s brother, who, I’ve heard over the years, is as awesome as we thought he would be.
My former-future-mother-in-law and substitute teacher — she had a son in my class and one in Amy’s, her daughter was in my brother’s class, and it was impossible to not love every last one of them. B-A, the matriarch, played softball with Mom.
Jenn R., who is now Jenn R-M. — she was the other Jenny in my class through grammar school and one of my closest friends forEVER. She has a gorgeous daughter and another little one on the way in December, and she looked WONDERFUL. (Her mom also played softball with my mom.)
Erika H., whom I met in junior high. We were very close, even after I moved — she came to visit me in Pleasanton and looks much the same, but older and skinnier.
The first boy I had a mad crush on. I consider it a personal, though completely pointless, victory that he invited me to call him anytime.
My old PE teacher from MUHS, who, I think, coached Mom’s basketball team.
Chuck and Laura B., whose son threw rocks at me at one of my birthday parties. He later became a police officer and literally shot himself in the foot.

It was amazing to see everyone, and more amazing to recognize some of them on sight after so long. This was helpful, actually — a lot of people didn’t recognize me, and my family was…well, the ones who were most active in greeting people and directing them to the photo area seemed disinclined to let them know I was even there.

Regardless…

Today, I went out to run an errand and stopped at World Market to begin restocking the wine rack. As I was checking out, I looked hard at the woman behind the counter and should have been more shocked when I read her nametag.

“You look a lot like an Emily I went to school with,” I said.

“Where did you go to school?” she asked.

“Vermont.”

She seemed to start recognizing me at this point and asked me what town.

“Middlebury, but I moved freshman year,” I said. “Class of 95. You used to call me Jingy.”

OMG. Em Dayton looks like a more grown-up version of herself…the self I knew when I was 14, anyway. We talked a little bit about who from the old crowd is where and I shared the sad news behind some of that knowledge for me. We’ll get together soon and catch up, I hope — she was one of the crazy-funniest chicks I knew back then.

I quit, y’all. This whole “Jen’s life is one big circle” thing is getting a LITTLE OUT OF HAND.

Filed under: jen v3.0, Rearview Mirror | 2 Comments »

New Rule

Posted on August 30, 2008 by 8junebugs

Scrapbooking needs to happen more often than once every seven years, especially if you’re the unofficial family photographer and/or a documentation junkie.

Sheesh.

I’m not even getting fancy — I’m just putting photos away and writing in names and some simple captions. I fancy myself the link in my family between “tossing unlabeled photos in a drawer” and “Scrapbooking with a capital S.” My parents used the sticky albums with the static cover sheets; I’ve got sheet-protected pages and acid-free supplies.

But I am THISCLOSE to setting up collage sheets on snapfish and calling it a day. I have a feeling that will be the trend for 2009…because I’ll keep taking a metric ton of pictures, but time is money, yo. If I’m not going to do anything more than organize pics on a page, I’m happy to pay someone to do that for me.

And I have a genetic predisposition against chucking anything printed on Kodak paper. It has taken me years to be able to toss out photos of people and places I have no intention of remembering fondly or explaining to my progeny. I’m getting so much better at that… Why showcase memories you might think you should move past?

Because sometimes those memories are precious and you don’t want to move past them for a reason. You may even retrieve the old photos someday…you may frame them and put them back in a place of honor, where they should always have been.

The rest, though? They’re just reminders of missteps, mistakes, and missed opportunities. They weigh heavily enough without being part of a family album.

Filed under: Old Enough to Know Better, Rearview Mirror | Leave a Comment »