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Montage Moments is a page of blog postings about a variety of subjects, thoughts and opinions..

He Knows My Name

8/30/2013

6 Comments

 
        A name: We all have one, whether we are particularly fond of what our parents chose, or not; we have a name. Some people dislike their name so much, they legally have it changed, or some Hollywood types, have it changed so it is more 'marketable.'
        There are bodies in unmarked graves and we may never know their name, but they still had one, once upon a time.
        We attach so much importance to a name. I remember when I was pregnant with our first baby. At that time, it was necessary to choose a name for both genders, because no one knew whether they were having a boy or a girl until the birth actually happened. My husband wanted a particular girl's name but I absolutely refused the choice. Why? Because I knew a girl with that name in elementary school and she was one of the "mean girls" before that was even a term. I would have thought of her each time I said my baby's name. I chose Kirby for a boy, but my husband said he would always see his son as a vacuum cleaner. The search went on and we eventually found a name on which we could agree.
        My parents' generation nearly always used a relative's name, at least for the second name if not the first. The middle name chosen for me and MANY of my girl cousins was Louise: my grandmother's name. My nephew and his wife recently had their first babies, twin girls. They chose the names of identical twin great-great aunts on my father's side of the family. There are many, many factors which influence our name choices. 
    We also like our names to be pronounced correctly. My cousin's name was Kathleen. She would get irate (when she was a child) if people would insert an 'a' in the middle, pronouncing it Kath-a-leen. My daughter's name is Kalisha. I can't count how many people want to make it Alisha. My son was named Kirk, but I threatened to write it on his forehead because 75% of the people wanted to call him Curt.
    My name is not heard too often, so when I am shopping and hear "Gloria" from another aisle, I am nearly always certain it is someone looking for me. (It never is)
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    This story brings me to tears every time I tell it. My daughter and her husband and their 3-year-old son, Joey, were living in Texas when Hurricane Katrina threatened their area. The forecasts were dire. I called to see if they were prepared, or as prepared as they could be.
    My daughter told me they had boarded up the windows on the house. They had assembled blankets, battery-operated lights and radio, drinking water and non-perishable food and put them all in a 'middle of the house closet.' Then she told me something I have never forgotten.
    "I took a permanent marker and wrote Joey's name and your phone number on his bare back, in case we would be separated or injured in the storm. I'm not sure he could tell anyone his name if they found him wandering." 
    I can't even tell you how I felt at that moment. Scared for them, proud of her logical thinking, and realizing what it means to have someone know your name, whether it is an emergency or not and whether you know your own name or not.
    Before my father died, he had Alzheimer's for several years. He was in a nursing home and literally did not know his name. He wouldn't even look up when you called him by name, but he still had a name and we used it when we talked to him.
    Obviously, names are important even after death or we wouldn't inscribe them on tombstones. While I was in Savannah, I visited a cemetery that had the stones in disarray. They had been moved during the Civil War and after the war, no one knew which graves they went to, so they left them propped against the cemetery fence. Regardless of whether they were in the right places or not, they still had names on them and those names belonged to someone.
     I started thinking about the importance of names when Kalisha and I went to the Indianapolis Colts' training camp a few weeks ago. She, and a lot of others, stood at the fence for hours, in the rain, on the chance they might secure an autograph from one of the players. Not just any player; but hopefully, one of the well-known individuals. When practice ended and some of the players started toward the fence, there was a crush of people not unlike the pictures of fans wanting Elvis' autograph a long time ago. I was a bit concerned she might be crushed between the throngs and the fence.
  

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    She 'lucked out' (sorry, I just had to say that) and got Andrew Luck's autograph. In case you don't follow football, he is the quarterback for the Colts. She was ecstatic. A few people have told her how much money that will be worth some day, but she doesn't really care; she is happy just to have it; to actually have his name, written by him. 
    We discussed names and how some names are worth more than others, in the world's view. But every person and name is important to God.
This is the chorus to one of my favorite songs:
        
                            He Knows My Name 
He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
and hears me when I call
Music and lyrics by Tommy walker 

 It is comforting to me to know He will know my name even if I am blown about by life's storms, lost, my name is obliterated from a headstone, or when I no longer know it myself.


 

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Aunts and Uncles are Special People

8/21/2013

4 Comments

 
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    My maternal grandparents had 10 children (1 died when he was a baby). That left the 9 you see pictured here. 
The first picture was taken, obviously when they were all young. The second picture was when they had aged some but were still 'young at heart.'
    

  


 . 
   

      I knew my aunts and uncles and their spouses well, but I always respectfully used the aunt and uncle preface before their name. I would not have dreamed of just calling out, "Hey, Ted." They were all a part of my life as I grew up. We had reunions every summer where it wasn't just the immediate aunts and uncles and cousins, but we got to see second and third cousins, and great aunts and uncles, too.
    They were very special to me. They were honest, ethical, hard-working, good-timin' people. The men loved to play cards when they got together; usually euchre, and I can still hear the cards slap on the table as they would shoot the moon. 
    They were God-fearing, church-attending, bible-believing people who loved the Lord and taught their children to do the same. 
    One by one, they left this world, along with my parents. The one remaining was my Aunt Luella. She was the baby of the family and my godmother and my 'second mother.' I referred to her as that because I lived with her and Uncle Herb for 2 weeks every summer. They had a daughter, my cousin, who was only 10 months older than me and we considered each other sisters. I would spend 2 weeks in the big city of LaPorte, Indiana, and then Kathy would come home with me and spend 2 weeks enjoying country life at my house. We both thought the other life was the best. Sort of 'the grass is greener' concept.
    On Saturday, I attended the funeral of Aunt Luella. She finally, at almost 98 years old, got to join her brothers and sisters in heaven. I am so happy she is there, but sad too. I have so many memories of those summer visits. I realize most of you reading this, didn't know my aunt, but perhaps you can relate to some of my random memories from childhood.



      She made delicious meatballs. That was something we never had at home. My mother was a wonderful cook, but Italian fare was not in her repertoire. There was a day when Aunt Luella and Uncle Herb were going out for the evening and left Kathy and me in charge of Ken, Kathy's little brother. (What were they thinking??) Dinner was ready for us: spaghetti and Italian meatballs; a large pot full. When they returned, she asked what we did with the leftovers. Kathy and I looked at each other.
    Leftovers? We were supposed to have leftovers? Aunt Luella was incredulous. 
    "Do you know how many meatballs I made?" We didn't, of course.
    "I made 40 meatballs." (they were small, ok?) "Did Kenny get any?"
    "Of course, he did," we said rather indignantly. "He had 6, probably."
    "You girls ate 34 meatballs?" she said in a stern voice, but as we looked at each other and back at her, she started laughing and couldn't stop. Whew. We were off the hook.
    Another time, we were all setting at the table, ready to eat. Kathy and I were across from each other. I took a large gulp of milk, looked at Kathy and for no explainable reason, burst into a spasm of laughter, thereby spewing the milk in my mouth across the entire table and the food. Aunt Luella looked at Uncle Herb, who was as dumbfounded as she, and then she said, "Well, for goodness sake." She got up, got a towel, wiped up as much as she could and continued on as if someone covered her prepared dinner in milk every day of the week.
    She was not only my favorite aunt, she was my godmother, too. She would give me really cool, in-style gifts for my birthday and Christmas. One year it was a lime green scarf (yes, lime green was in style way back then, too) with a pin to fasten it when you tied it around your neck. I still have the pin. I thought I was hot stuff.
    When it was unbearably hot at night, she allowed us to pull the mattress off Kathy's bed and put it on the floor in front of the window so we could get a little breeze. We giggled uncontrollably about everything and nothing. Usually, we didn't even know what we were giggling about. Aunt Luella would come to the foot of the stairs and tell us to go to sleep. We would promise we would. Fifteen minutes later, she would tell us the same thing. We tried...we just couldn't stop laughing. Some nights, I think she made 5 trips to the bottom of the stairs before we went to sleep. She never screamed and yelled; she just kept saying, "Girls! Go to sleep."
    I could go on and on with stories about Christmas cookies we found in a cookie jar on top of the refrigerator, in July. (They were Lady Fingers, but they should have been renamed Rocks by the time we found them. She told us to go ahead and eat them.), the summer we were going to a forbidden movie and got caught, or the Pat Boone movie we sat through 3 times, having to take Kenny to the park and hating every minute of it, or cluttering up her entire living room while we played 'office' and school. She allowed us to go to the lake and swim nearly every day. I tasted my first pizza in LaPorte. (Another food that wasn't on the menu at home.)
  
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    She had these awesome (I thought) metal, colored drinking glasses. We had plain old glass glasses at home. It is sometimes strange what evokes a memory in our minds. These metal cups always do that for me.
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This picture was taken about 10 years ago. She was a great aunt. Did she have faults? I'm sure she did, but as a kid, I never saw any and if I did, they have obviously been erased from my memory.
I choose to remember all of my aunts and uncles in loving ways. It is rather scary to me to think that with her death, there are NO MORE relatives of that generation, which makes my generation the oldest. No more people to ask questions about something from their lifetimes. I have a lot of it written down, but occasionally, I wish I could ask something.
    Aunts and uncles are so important in children's lives. They are the second line of defense, after the parents, against some of the things of this world and should take that responsibility seriously. I learned so much from my parents and grandmother, but I learned a lot from my aunts and uncles, too.
Try to be a good aunt or uncle. Your nieces and nephews will remember what you say and how you act. I did.

4 Comments

The Table Is Home

8/13/2013

4 Comments

 
    When we first moved to the farmhouse, we needed a large kitchen table for our fairly large family (6 of us) and our large kitchen. We had a Duncan Phyfe table for the dining room, but since most meals would be eaten in the kitchen, we wanted a sturdy table. Tom went to an auction for some tools and came home with a kitchen cupboard, the kind with a flour sifter and a granite worktop, and a table. 
    The table wasn't exactly what I had in mind. It had originally been used in a dining room, I believe, and not a kitchen. It was a rather unique design; one I had never seen before. Instead of having leaves or boards that fit in the middle when the table was pulled apart, this one had an attached board on each end that fit under the tabletop. When they were pulled up, the table was 7 feet long. Okay, I could live with that.
    Over the years, that table was put to good use. The kids did their homework there, they played games on it, we ate every meal there. It was used for cooling homemade bread, canning fruits and vegetables, cutting material for sewing projects and every other project you could think of.
    As the children grew and brought friends home with them, the chairs began to fall apart. There has never been a teenage boy who did not lean back in a chair and balance on the back legs. They would play cards or just set and talk; always at the table.
    On Christmas Day in 1983, one of the coldest days in IN history, our house caught fire. It was all smoke damaged, but the kitchen, the only part of the house that was one-story, had no roof and everything was damaged.
    
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    All the white stuff you see in this picture is ice from the fire hoses. My kitchen didn't really look like this before the fire.
    The table was not burned, but was definitely water-damaged. It was taken, along with everything else in the house, to a restoration shop. Six months later, when we could move back in, the table was returned. It felt like I was seeing an old friend again.
    It continued to be used for every occasion; parties, birthdays, playing cards with guests, even for grandchildren to eat cupcakes.
    
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    This table was the only table my children and grandchildren identified as the "table." In other words, if I said, "Go put it on the table" they knew which one. Finally the day came when I sold the farmhouse. There was no room in our apartment for such a heavy, long table. And besides, There was only Kalisha and me to set at a table to eat, so it had to go. My daughter, Kaylynn, could not bear for it to be sold, so she took it to her house. She and her family moved a few times over the years, but they always took the table. It was, like me, beginning to show signs of wear and tear. The chairs had been pitched a long time ago, but the table remained. It was in her dining room and not used very often, as they almost always ate in the kitchen.
     It made me sad, sometimes, to see it without chairs and the finish was gone on the top of it. It looked tired. When Kaylynn and her husband down-sized due to kids growing up, there was no room for the table in their new place. She asked me what I wanted her to do with it. My first response was to sell it. Then I said she should keep it in storage since it really was an antique. She and the other kids have so many memories of that table, it was almost unbearable to think of selling it.
    Finally, I had my son-in-law bring it to my garage until I could do something with it. I didn't need it; I had a beautiful table. Maybe I could have it refinished and sell it. I stored it in the garage all winter and spring. I knew it would eventually end up in my house again. I sold my big table to my Amish friend. Then I used a suggestion I read on Facebook to put some oil back into the wood. Finally I had my grandson (one of the little boys eating cupcakes and now nearly 20 years old) help me bring it into the house.
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    I felt like the world was back in the right order again. I know it is foolish to be so attached to an inanimate object like a table; however, it holds so many years worth of memories, and after years of being displaced, it has come home.
    I believe that is how it is with our lives. We move from one place to another, we become scarred and broken, our 'finish' becomes dull. But when we finally go home to our heavenly home, we will be like new again and all will be right with our world.
    Until then, come visit one day and we will set at my table and have a chat and a cup of coffee.
4 Comments

    Author: Gloria Doty

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