Angie’s Memoir Project – Page 4

Refinishing the Piano

Refinishing the Piano, 1998

A recurring theme in my journal from my years of marriage is my desire to be accepted by my mother-in-law. She has been welcoming and generous to me, but any suggestion she has made has sunk deep into my soul.

“You should refinish that piano,” she said, when she saw the piano in our apartment in Provo, just months after Richard and I were married. She told me about her experiences refinishing pianos and other pieces of furniture. My mother-in-law’s laundry room was full of paints, stains, chemicals, and potions for the application and removal of anything.

The piano was a nearly 100-year-old Kimball, tall and heavy, that my dad acquired when I was a teenager. For many years, my dad loaned it to families in the neighborhood so their children could have an instrument. When I was married, the piano came to me.

It had a deep cherry stain but no piano bench. Years of sitting in homes without a bench left it with some chips in the finish below the fingerboard where chairs had been pushed against it. Richard’s mother gave us the piano bench that Richard made for her in high school and pushed it beneath the keys.

On a later visit, Richard’s mother showed me how to take apart the piano in a further effort to convince me to refinish it. My over-active self-doubt and desire to please her haunted me as we finished college in that apartment. I had no time to refinish a piano, but its chipped surface and the idea that I should fix it really bothered me. We had our baby shortly after I graduated from BYU, and now I really felt I had no time to refinish a piano with an infant to care for and Richard finishing a graduate degree and working in a lab.

We moved to Texas in 1997 and Richard began the first job of his career at National Instruments. I felt the stretch of motherhood at this time pretty fully. I had had my first exposure to the antics of a 15-18-month-old during that first year in Texas, far from family and among uninitiated friends. It’s been true for most of my children: at age 15 months, they begin whining, become more demanding, and make a lot of trouble for the next several months.

In my frustration, I turned to religious music. I took Paige on walks and blew lots of bubbles and built block towers, but she was still whiny and destructive. I decided that having only one focus (my baby) wasn’t working. I decided to refinish that piano.

The hardware store had low-fume chemicals to begin the process of taking off the finish. I decided not to worry about the mess and the fact that I had a toddler to entertain. The winter Olympics were on and I spent days with the television turned to winter sports as I worked during Paige’s naps and beyond. As I focused on scraping the old finish from the wood, she learned to entertain herself. She liked playing on the piano and seeing what it looked like inside. The sliding door of our apartment was always open that winter during the project to vent out the fumes. I grew to love a warm Texas winter.

Next time you see a piano, take some time to study it. There are so many pieces. Some you can remove. Others you can’t. Count the crevices and indentations. This project took me a long time. For months, we had a partially dismantled, partially bare wood piano. I can still hear the sickening slap of the brush applying the noxious chemical stripper to the wood. I can remember the bubbling of the stain as the chemicals seeped in. I wore long rubber gloves as I scraped the red finish off with a putty knife and collected the bacon-like strips of the old stuff in my hands. Bag after bag of soggy, orange-red paint and stain exited our apartment during those months. When Richard left for a week-long Scout camp in Tennessee that summer, I spent the nights pushing myself to finish the project. When he walked in the door a week later, the piano was finished; no longer cherry red, and showing a beautiful wood grain.

The refinished piano moved with us three times, to a house in Texas, a house in Arizona, and another house in Arizona. After we bought a grand piano in 2007, we sent the old Kimball to my sister Susan. I tried to plant a seed as I said to her, “Make some kind of improvement on it before you pass it on. Perhaps you could start by replacing the covers on those chipped keys.” I am not sure if my words haunt her, but I know she will be glad if she makes a couple of improvements to it.

In the end, I didn’t refinish the piano to please my mother-in-law. In fact, I don’t remember what she said when she saw that I had done it! I refinished the piano for myself. I have my mother-in-law to thank for the idea and some guidance. I learned a skill and a life lesson: be creative. Always be building or making something. Don’t give yourself to your family so much that you forget to create. Perhaps she wanted to teach me the satisfaction of such a project. I am a better mother and wife when I have something to work on outside of childcare and house work.

The Stroller and as much of a dropping-off-at-BYU post as I can write

1-DSC_3660 — Sparky hoped to stow away to college

1-DSC_3662 — The dorm room, not decorated, but fantastic.

The stroller

Spring of 1998 was the first time I watched the Texas bluebonnets bloom along the roadways. We were building a new house. I had time to do projects and I spent some of that time sewing clothing for one-year-old Paige. I bought cheerful flowered fabrics for play clothes and a gauzy organza fabric for her Easter dress.

This time was the beginning of a focused effort to acquire toys for our little girl. I didn’t know then that toys are something you only need to buy for a few years. Once you’ve got a good collection, they seem to multiply magically in the closets and bins.

One day I drove Paige to the mall in Cedar Park to visit the toy store. Paige picked out a pink doll-sized stroller, a perfect size for her to push. She was so excited about it that I let her push the stroller through the mall. She began to move ahead of me and I was left to follow her. I watched her bob ahead of me with her cute short haircut, hot pink sandals, and handmade pink dress. Because I was a few steps behind her, I saw the smiles from shoppers as they noticed this little woman walking so confidently with her stroller.

I can still remember the rattly-scraping sound that the wheels made on the floors and sidewalks. I will never forget the print of her pink dress nor the love she granted to each of her dolls that rode in the stroller.

I don’t know why certain memories stay with me while others are lost. Perhaps this memory of Paige pushing her stroller stays because her little form, pushing forward on her own, became a glimpse of what I would experience again and again, observing her become more independent. I couldn’t have appreciated at the time that this scene was the first of many, where I would watch our children move beyond our reach to become who they are.

Just as I watched the smiles of strangers that day, I’ve seen the delight that my children’s reaching has pulled from observers. I’ve been blessed with friends who have loved our children and doted on them and shown support for their dance, baseball, and piano feats. The feeling I have at these moments when my children perform or move to the next phase is full, sometimes painful, and expansive. My heart races to catch up as my children move ahead with strengths I couldn’t imagine for them.

It’s when I give them the freedom to move out of my reach that I’ve had better perspective of what they can become. But, oh, the ache that comes with my smile!

In the afternoon sun

We are busy. Our family is enjoying the last hours of summer vacation from school. I don’t want to give up this blog, but I struggle to find the time to write. Here is something I wrote last spring.

Changing Sheets

The afternoon sun is my only companion as I step into each of my children’s bedrooms to collect their sheets. Their absence from home persuades me to linger in their rooms to reconnect with them. Today the warm sun sets their kingdoms in a glow.

I begin in the cave, fifteen-year-old Daniel’s basement room, which always has its curtains drawn. I pull them open and the sunlight illuminates the corners. I pause to admire a machine he’s designed and created. There are candy and snack wrappers strewn on the otherwise unused desk. It’s clear that his rug and bed are his places of study. I notice that he’s reading Les Miserables. I pause at his mirror where old medals hang from one side, drawing my eye downward to his shelves, once occupied by collections, now occupied by more food wrappers and clothing he’s outgrown. The cluttered corners of his room are evidence of a young man in transition; childhood toys are no longer a pastime, but a few remain in sight. I smile to see that I can still count on him to hang up his church shirt. I sweep a few wrappers in the trash and slip the white shirt from its hanger into the hamper. I’m thankful for this young man in my home.

Twelve-year-old Timothy’s room, unlike Daniel’s room, is bright and warm from the sunlight coming through his blinds, which he never closes. Here, his treasures are also in ready view and they are unique. A Halloween wig and beard are displayed, a remnant of the work he and I go through every year to make just the right costume. He doesn’t have cluttered corners. His shelves display small toys earned at school and baseball trophies. After changing his sheets, I pause to admire the Lego Star Wars Clone Troopers arranged on the window sill in formation. Timothy’s methodical placement of toys is evidence of the gift of precision that he shows in most activities in his life. His Lego figures posed in silly scenes remind me of his humor, too. I tell myself that next time I need to correct him, I should use more humor. He’ll respond to that.

Eight-year-old Mark’s bedside shelf is piled high with books; books he’s inhaled, re-read, and will read again. Among the Harry Potter and Creature from My Closet books is a 1000-page Archie comic book. His bedding is a mess because the dog likes to nest in it. I’ve allowed it because Mark needs the dog’s company. This room, too, displays important treasures: postcards from a special Sunday school teacher’s travels, space ships, robots, and stuffed animals. This room houses my most affectionate child. Thoughts of him playing with his toys in this room wrings my heart. I’ve learned that little boy days are so brief. I step over a rumpled rug and smooth his suit, hung hastily in his closet and move to the next room.

Objects aren’t the only clues to a person’s activities. As I walk into eighteen-year-old Paige’s room, my busy thoughts are hushed in this somewhat cluttered place of intense study. Her quiet ways seem to have embedded themselves into the mood of the room. She is religious: her scriptures at her bedside and her art choices on the wall show me what she chooses to look at. She is busy. Her school papers are accumulating on a shelf. Some stacks are months old. She displays beautiful things: paintings, photographs of friends, and favorite books. I take a minute and sit on her bed before I change her sheets. I notice her closet, arranged by color, and her palette and paints on her desk. I try not to think about the short time she has left at home, but the days march forward in a relentless rhythm of lasts: last Christmas, last youth activity, last everything. Tears crowd me as I realize that we won’t hear her step in the hall and her hands on the piano in the autumn. The upcoming change makes the air feel tight in moments like this when I am alone. I sigh, brush away my tears, and hope that I cherished our time together enough. Then I get back to work.

In the afternoon sun, I do a small service and change sheets and discover my family. My children probably won’t remember that I changed their sheets, but I hope they will remember that I knew about their lives and loved them. This is one of the ways that I accomplish this. Someone once wrote that a homemaker makes something great out of that which is small. Changing sheets is no exception.

Art and Memory

As I have worked on the story of our family I’ve read journals, handled baby clothes, played music, and sifted through gifts from my children to awaken memories. I have seen how the arts have a power over memory that my conscious efforts don’t. I listened to an album from Paige’s childhood and the music didn’t bring back many concrete memories, but a yearning and a sweet ache. Feelings aren’t always nonsense. They can teach things that concrete objects can’t. My history isn’t just a chronology, it’s also emotion and motives not easily explained.

Music reminds me that there is a reality beyond memory that is sweet and real. Many details of motherhood are lost to me because I was tired and I didn’t write everything down. Music helps me remember what my mind cannot: how it felt to draw myself out to my children. It reminds me of unfiltered vulnerability and sacrifice, which are some of the ways I have loved.

Words, harnessed and molded, also help me understand my blessings. If I capture moments in words, they become objects of gratitude. Blessings multiply before my mind as I record Mark’s funny quotes, or the times when Timothy walked around the pool talking to the plants when he was a baby. Blessings take the form of the sparkle in Paige’s eyes when she danced and showed us her magnificent spirit on stage, or when Daniel, completely disarmed after a week away from home, gave me a long hug when he returned. These little things become pillars of memory as I take time to record them. It’s not just the big events that matter. Now recorded in words, these little memories are a testament to the blessings of having children; of the blessing of being alive.

Why make the effort to write? I want to be a voice that champions family. I want my family to know they are my favorite people.

Mothering was something I always wanted to do. It’s satisfying to me. It involves pain, worry, and frustration, too. It’s the role I cling to, but must find activities apart from, in order to be successful. Music and writing are those activities, yet they also bring me back to my family. I have an identity outside my titles, roles, and errands, but my role in the family has helped me in every way. I’m so thankful to be a daughter, sister, wife, and mother.

Quiet Paige is Formidable

As Paige is graduating this week, I thought I’d share one of my essays about her from my memoir project.

Quiet Paige is Formidable

When Paige was four or five years old, she was part of a class of children in church with two darling teachers, Katrina Kuriplach and Lisa Stott. One day during the lesson the children were challenged to pick up a penny without using their thumbs. This task was designed to be impossible, perhaps to point out the amazing design of our bodies. Children took turns coming to the front of the room and tried to pick up the penny with only their fingers, but each failed. Quiet, hesitant Paige surprised them all when she walked up to the penny, brushed it off the book without using her thumbs, and caught it with her other hand when it fell.

When Paige was three, she dressed up for Halloween as Mary Poppins. Our neighbors’ daughter Kaitlyn was her best friend. We went trick-or-treating together as families and watched our little girls run ahead of us to the next house. Kaitlyn’s mother took the opportunity to tell me that Kaitlyn had tried to get Paige to dress in a coordinating costume. Kaitlyn was a blue dog, and she wanted Paige to be the pink dog. (Blue and Magenta from the show, Blues Clues) However, Kaitlyn’s mother said that Paige would have nothing to do with the idea. “Paige is independent and strong-willed,” she told me. I had worried that Paige’s silent nature might mean a life of getting pushed around by others, and this was a welcome insight!

I have learned from having a quiet child and being quiet myself that it’s possible to have strength, resilience, and ingenuity while being quiet. It is an important day when someone will acknowledge that.

At age eight when Paige was interviewed by our bishop for baptism, I received a call from the bishop telling me that he had been impressed by Paige’s answers to his questions about the gospel. He told me that it was a “Charlie Brown” moment in his life. He had become the adult whose words were muddled and unimportant as Paige’s clear and profound answers became the focus and highlight of the conversation. Many years later when we were living in Arizona, this bishop wrote to me,

Paige remains the most amazing baptism interview of my Bishop career…she left an indelible impression of goodness and purpose… Her light reflects her intrinsic beauty, value and a maturity far beyond her mortal years… Her understanding of and her insight into our Father’s Plan of Happiness leaves her untroubled with the ‘Do’s and Don’t’s’ of the commandments… While I may no longer recognize her in a crowd, I will love her forever.

What does it take to have music like that in my home?

1-new piano — We bought this piano in February 2007.

Daniel and Paige played piano in public this week. Someone leaned over to me and asked what it takes to have kids play music like that in my home.

I deferred to Paige to tell the woman how long she’s studied piano, and I started thinking about “what it took” to get where we are now. My mind kept going back to the financial aspect of it as I drove away from the event in my 16-year-old van (which I love). Every month, instead of a car payment, we pay a piano teacher. Can a person learn to play piano with a less expensive teacher? Of course! But we wanted the opportunities a professional teacher could offer. We invested in a grand piano in 2007. The kids love this instrument and it is fun to play. This helps them want to practice. Can a person learn to play beautifully on an upright piano? Of course! For our family, having this piano in a music room has been a symbol of our commitment to music and this commitment has become part of our family culture. As for incentives for practicing, we don’t allow media time until the kids have practiced. That’s been a great motivator for the boys.

Besides the financial investment, there is an investment of time. By no means do I resent the money and time we have spent, but I started calculating how much time we have given for music study. Richard taught Paige for two years. I spend one afternoon a week shuttling kids to and from piano lessons. I’ve done that for 10 years. On piano lesson days, I don’t try to do anything that requires focused attention. I’ll fold laundry between lessons or do little projects around the house, but then it’s time to get in the car again. I have no idea how many hours I’ve spent driving. Piano lessons always go over time, so I wait. Waiting 20-30 minutes a week for 10 years means that I’ve spent over 200 hours sitting in the van waiting for the kids to finish piano lessons. Who knows how many hours I’ve spent waiting at ensemble rehearsals, judging events, and recitals. I read while I wait, so it’s nice. And then there is the time that I am home, monitoring practice, or making sure that it happens. I’m grateful that I am home to do this. Is our method the only way to produce great musicians? No! But every hour, every dollar, and every sacrifice is worth it “to have music like that in our home.”

Loneliness

One of the requirements in the Personal Progress program for young women in my church is to interview a mother to discover qualities that are important in motherhood. Paige interviewed me and she took some notes. When we were finished, I asked her if anything I said was a surprise to her. She said that she was surprised by my answer that women need to be prepared to be lonely at times.

When is it lonely to be a mother? And is loneliness all bad?

I remember pushing Paige in the stroller on a walk through the frost-covered neighborhood when she was 2 or 3 months old. She was bundled up in a fuzzy pink body coat with white trim around the face. I was distraught and I berated myself, “What kind of mother are you, letting things go so far without calling a doctor?” She had a red blister that was oozing and sensitive. Somehow my worry didn’t translate into courage to call her doctor and have it looked at. I felt immature, scared, and alone that day, but my walk and harsh self-talk helped me to call the doctor when I got home. It all turned out just fine.

I was young. None of my closest friends were even married. I was teaching Primary on Sundays and this didn’t bring me any close friendships with other women. Richard was at school and work all day and into the night. I had to figure out what kind of mother I would be during those early months on my own. It was hard, but not bad. If I hadn’t been a little isolated, the shock of moving to a new state later that year would have been more difficult. Every new mom is going to feel alone in decisions sometimes, isolated physically from friends and family, and it’s an opportunity to grow.

I remember the week when Paige’s best friend went to Kindergarten. We had decided to keep Paige at home and begin home schooling. Our decision had been considered carefully, but when the reality hit that Paige wasn’t going to be in Kaitlyn’s class and have a sleep mat and a cute backpack and be in a sea of children on the playground, that felt lonely. I learned from this lonely time (before we found home school groups) that it takes courage to be different than everyone else in the neighborhood and church. I learned not to care so much about what other people did and to focus on what my children needed. Loneliness led to many great family memories and education adventures.

Years later in Arizona, I was one of the oldest mothers in our church congregation. There weren’t many girls Paige’s age at church, and just a few boys for Daniel to play with. The home school community was split down a religious divide and Mormons were excluded from the most dynamic and well-attended home school group. I was isolated by age and my beliefs from groups of women who loved one another at church and school.

There were many days where I felt lonely, but poured my energy into leading art and science lessons for 30 families at our community center. I became a community leader through my isolation. I didn’t have a lot of chit-chat at church with younger women. However, I had long, important talks with many of these young mothers, one by one, when they asked to visit our home to learn about parenting or home school. I became a mentor in my early thirties.

In retrospect, I don’t think the kids would agree that the years in Arizona were a lonely time. I made sure they were with other children every day. But it didn’t always follow that I had friends, too. I learned to be strong in my parenting during those years and I dedicated my energy to my family and my community. This helped me to avoid feeling sorry for myself. Loneliness and isolation worked to our benefit once again.

Here are some lessons that I learned from loneliness:

Some loneliness comes from the idea that we can only be friends with people our age, in similar circumstances, and neighborhood. Not finding friends in the immediate area, I became friends with people in a larger radius. I became friends with women who were old enough to be my mother and grandmother. I became friends with people of other faiths. I am so grateful for my diverse set of friends!

Loneliness is an attitude. Isolation is often a choice. I didn’t have to be lonely. I learned to go on walks, talk to people at parks, be assertive, and dream about ways to make the community stronger, then go out and do it.

Everyone wants kind neighbors. I have tried to be a good neighbor. A plate of cookies or a loaf of bread have been great ways to begin a relationship with people.

When you are lonely, this is an opportunity to grow in courage and ability. Because I was lonely, I learned to depend on my Heavenly Father more than myself. I learned to depend on my husband more than friends. I learned that I could do hard things. I learned new skills. I grew strong because I needed to be strong.

Loneliness is a sign we need to reach out. Loneliness can be a catalyst for great experiences and friendships. I am thankful for the experiences I sought because I was lonely.

The Irresistible Packing Peanut

When packages arrived at the house in the early 2000’s, merchandise was packed in S-shaped Styrofoam puffs. Some were pale green, others were pink, but most of them where white.

White like snow!

Or so the children imagined. A package would arrive and if there were packing peanuts, they would immediately shove their hands deep into the box, Styrofoam puffs up to their chests. The rustling sound when they moved their fingers through them and the squeaky, cracking sound when the puffs broke in their hands added to their delight.

A fresh box of packing peanuts had arrived earlier that day. (Who cares what the merchandise was! There was a big box to climb in and there were Styrofoam puffs!) Three-year-old Daniel and six-year-old Paige began some of their best plans for packing peanut play. Just this once, Mom decided to watch instead of divert them from the inevitable disaster.

“Let’s fill Mom’s big pot with them,” Daniel suggested to Paige, and hurried to the kitchen. Soon there was a stew of Styrofoam simmering in the pot. Daniel decided that the box of remaining packing peanuts would be a tub of bubbly, warm water. Splash! Peanuts scattered everywhere in the kitchen when he jumped in. Paige joined him in the box for about six seconds before Daniel hopped out, ready for something new.

Next, Daniel decided that he wanted to sit in the pot filled with Styrofoam. He threw the puffs in the air as he sat in the cozy space, knees up to his chest.

It was snowing!

They decided to make a blizzard. They moved their game into the living room on the carpet. Peanuts flew, squeaking and rustling before their flight, landing on every surface and crevice in the room. Thousands of puffs littered the carpet, but Daniel discovered he could multiply their number by breaking them into tinier and tinier pieces…pieces so small they clung to his sweatpants, arms, shirt, hair, and carpet. He was a magnet for puffs because of newly-generated static electricity.

The boy became a crazed snow-making machine and he made a worthy effort to break each. and. every. piece. of Styrofoam into tiny bits. It happened quickly. Paige looked on, enjoying the spectacle, but feeling some apprehension creeping in.

Continuing in a whirling frenzy of destruction, Daniel scattered his foamy missiles everywhere. Small bits of foam clung to Daniel’s lashes and he paused to look at the scene. Something awakened his sense of sanity. Was it frustration that he couldn’t seem to brush off all of these bits of foam from his clothes? Was it that his tub of Styrofoam was scattered everywhere and therefore not as fun? Or was it his big sister’s wide blue eyes, staring at the mess in disbelief?

Mom had been watching the storm, waiting to see how far the kids would take the game. With this pause, she decided ~~that if another piece of Styrofoam fell, she might go insane~~ that it was time to clean up. Dad plugged in the vacuum and handed Daniel the hose. They raked the big bits from the carpet and gathered the pieces with the vacuum. Cleaning up a snowstorm wasn’t nearly as fun as making one. Bits of foam disappeared into the box. And Mom went to a quiet place in the house to sort out why she couldn’t enjoy playing with packing peanuts like everyone else…

and maybe to snicker softly at the memory of the disaster.

Bread Baking Cure

It was 2009. I was feeling blue and I was feeling put upon. Church was a challenge and I didn’t feel understood or nourished by the people I was working with there. I was weary of the political commentary I heard in the halls and from comments in classes. I was grumpy, so I decided to fix it with bread.

I baked bread for several days and delivered the loaves to people in my town. The recipients were a mixture of people I loved and people I needed to learn to love. After the first delivery, I was a believer in the bread-baking cure for social maladies.

People reacted in strongly positive ways to receiving a loaf of warm, homemade bread. They would tell their friends; they would announce it in Sunday school that they loved my bread; and one night at a church auction, my offer to bake bread sold for over $100 for our cause. More important, people saw a loaf of bread as an act of love. It was a bridge to better friendship. I exchanged some of my pride and harsh judgments for a little effort in the kitchen and a new reputation for generosity.

Baking bread was one of the tools that helped me to finally accept living in Sahuarita, Arizona and enjoy it.

Wedding Day at Troldhaugen

1-IMG_0116 — Paige played Melodie op. 3 #3 by Rachmaninoff; Mark played Trumpet Fanfare by Vandall and Windflower; Timothy played Solfeggietto by CPE Bach and Titanium Tocatta by Vandall; Daniel played Wizard Fantasy by Leaf and Wedding Day at Troldhaugen, op. 65 #5 by Grieg.

Last night was my favorite piano recital so far for our children. They each played so well. I could hear improvement in the areas they have focused their pratice this year, whether it is in expression, strengthening the hands, or dexterity. I thought I’d share a small part of my experience at this recital, even though it only focuses on one child. They ALL made us proud.

Daniel sat down to play at the grand piano at the small recital at our library. The room was full of young boys not far into their piano study. When they heard that one of Daniel’s songs had the word, “Wizard” in the title, there were excited whispers among the youngest of boys.

I smiled, knowing exactly what the notes were coming, having heard him play them for months. I expected that Daniel would play well and I trained my attention to the rows of children behind me and how they would respond.

However, when he began to play, I learned that my attention couldn’t be shared. The music drew me to it and I could think of nothing else. Daniel’s playing was affecting me in a dramatic way. When the dynamics soard in Grieg’s Wedding Day at Troldhaugen, I saw briefly the boys in my peripheral vision respond to its power, but my eyes filled with tears and could see no more that that. I realized that I was probably the one benefitting most from this music played by my son.

The phrases of music felt like a blessing, a benediction, a celebration of his years of work. I swept away tears with my fingers and applauded when he finished. I am wondering if it’s time to just embrace the tears that come more freely with the years, or to continue to try to hide them. Do I really want to hide tears of happiness?