Cathy and Cayucos

I have often thought that in the spring, the rolling, green hills of Cayucos on the central coast of California look a lot like Ireland.  The sweeping landscape creates a beautiful portrait of land, sea, and sky - sometimes crystal blue with billowy white clouds and at other times shrouded in fog.
Whatever the weather, my heart always becomes lighter as I round the bend and come into the little town of dreams come true.
The luck 'o the Irish fills the town and has been a welcomed getaway for me for years.

I first began going to Cayucos in my grief over the death of my brother.
Its rugged, unspoiled, wide sandy beach provided a meditative escape from the ache of sibling-loss.  But more than the place, it has been the people -
my beloved friend, Mugs and her family
 whose hospitality and warmth have provided me shelter from the storms of life.
With the proverbial twinkle, Mugs' Irish eyes ever smiling
her sister, Cathy's effervescent joy
contagious.
Cathy and Cayucos. The stuff dreams are made of.

 But now, the clouds hang heavy over Cayucos as the dream dissolves into impending loss.
 Cancer the thief of joy.
And Mugs, courageously stands at the bedside, ever the nurse, the saint, the sage, tending to her big sister, Cathy, whose diagnosis is grave.

 Irish eyes now filled with sorrow and tears.

An even set, six sisters prepare for the uneven journey of loss and grief.
Too odd to imagine.

From a distance, I think of them.
A close-knit clan of nine
 these six sisters
and their three brothers
 all of whom I've loved from my designated spot as "like one of the family."
 I feel a deep sadness from afar as I think of the happiness and joy that cancer is stealing from their inner-circle around whose perimeter I've danced my entire life.

In solidarity, I weep for my lost sister.

With breaths and days numbered, I can only imagine the desperate love that grips them and the loyalty that has always bonded them.

Cayucos is heaven on earth.

Do I find some solace knowing Cathy has lived in heaven these past few years?  

Yes.

No. 

I am not ready for this farewell.

Too brief a stay.

I think of their angel-mother - whose own death was so peaceful at eighty,
who must now labor to bring her first-born back into her arms.

Perhaps their angel- mother will provide the promise of an eternal Irish wake in heaven -
complete with a sunset over a glistening ocean and a glass filled to the brim with central coast wine.

 Cathy's Irish eyes might once again laugh with her father who suffered his own cancerous end.
Mother, Father, Daughter
as in the beginning,
the first of nine
 a trio once more.

Leaving behind her own husband, children, and grandchildren
with her first granddaughter on the way,
Cathy will return to the baby she lost so many years ago.
It will be his turn for his mother's love.

With the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing...

But right now in Cayucos,
these Irish hearts are broken
as this song of farewell is sung.

May the road rise to meet you, Cathy.
May the wind be always at your back.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Sister, thank you.

(Dedicated to my beloved Shea family)

The Christmas Box

“Ah! How good it feels the hand of an old friend.”
― Mary Engelbreit

My favorite day of the Christmas season is when it arrives. Some years it has come before Christmas. Most years it comes a few days after. Only once in twenty years did it not come at all and I knew there was something wrong.
I can't remember how it started - this soulful exchange of boxes between Ann and me - filled with treasures.

The boxes' abundance or lack there of from year to year has reflected our respective financial states - some years the box brims. Other years it doesn't - but no matter - it's the friendship contained in it that counts. A long distance friendship that has endured over twenty years.
A friendship that began on a walk with strollers and bikes with training wheels - two young mothers colliding at the end of a driveway with four children between us -
Fast friends - instant soul mates - each sharing a love of the illustrator Mary Engelbreit, a hearty laugh, and deeply honest conversation.

Ann transformed our neighborhood with her enormous mid-western heart and joviality. Her two youngest children the same ages as mine - played dress up together and went to the same pre-school. They learned how to swim in my mother's pool. We trick or treated together, tugging a wagon behind us for tired little legs- and a six pack of beer. Ann organized neighborhood gatherings, dinners out, and lots of afternoon play dates.

Then, Ann moved with her family to Texas via St. Louis, her home town. As it happened, I was going to be in St. Louis for a conference that very summer, and so after she moved, I met up with her there - where she introduced me to the Mary Engelbreit store! I believe the box exchange began with Mary Engelbreit goodies - calendars, tea cups, ornaments, stationary - some years we even gave each other the same things!

Each Christmas, for over twenty years - UPS drivers in California and Texas have carried a box of treasures to Ann's and my front doors - and each Christmas, I wait until I'm completely alone - and then begin the joyous task of opening the box. Individually wrapped gifts - uncanny in their aptness - gifts that speak of the depth of understanding between us belying the long distance nature of our friendship. With each unwrapped treasure, a sigh - a smile - a tear - a giggle - a pause - a gasp - a memory.

Seven years after we said farewell in St. Louis, Ann and I met up again in Italy for a ten day excursion through Tuscany. The last time I laid eyes on her was in an airport in Rome seven years ago. Hopefully we will see each other again this summer. The T-towel I sent in her box this year bore the map of California. A note in her box to me indicated that this just might be the summer. It seems we have a pattern of seeing each other every seven years. We don't email. We don't facebook. We talk on the phone once or twice a year. But through the long periods of separation - and the ups and downs of our lives - the one constant connection has been our Christmas box exchange.

It seems we both outgrew Mary Engelbreit decor - or simply exhausted the inventory of potential Mary Engelbreit chachkies - but the box has always had a sense of magic about it. I think it is because it represents a commitment and faithfulness between two steadfast friends with an almost mystical - heart to heart connection. The Christmas box is a sacred tradition. It is a promise. It is a box filled with love.
It is a joyous celebration of the mystery of life. Each Christmas, as my hand digs into the bubble wrap and paper, it pulls out a wrapped package, big or small, that I know was touched by the hand of an old friend. And that is the greatest treasure of all.

Faithful Friends

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things to do during the Christmas season was to curl up on the couch in my parent's den next to the Christmas tree and listen to Frank Sinatra's Christmas album. A melancholy yearning would well up inside of me as I gazed at the colored lights on the tree particularly when the song "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" played.

Faithful Friends who are dear to us
gather near to us once more.
Through the years we all will be together
if the fates allow
hang a shining star upon the highest bough
and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

There is something haunting about those lyrics.
Something prophetic.
It's the word "if".
The yearning, I suspect, was the desire to hold that if at bay -
Even as a young child, I knew life was fragile. I knew my secure slumber on my parent's couch next to that Christmas tree would not last. But "if" the fates allowed, maybe it would for just a little while longer.

Truth be known, I think I was lonely as a child - which is why my friends have always been important to me.
This weekend I spent time with some of those faithful friends. Childhood friends. College friends. Friends with whom no explanation is needed. We know each other's stories. We are intimate friends.

I took great solace in being with those friends this weekend. Here we are, fifty-somethings. Our faces have more lines. Our bodies are a variety of sizes. We are in various states of "shape."
We were young together and now we aren't.
We are peers
in the same stage of life.
Always have been of course -
but now, as we get older,
it matters.

These are friends with whom nostalgia is only a part of the picture. We do not live in the past. These are present tense friends. We're still making memories.

Friendship is one of life's greatest riches.
This weekend, as I gazed into the faces of such dear friends, my heart was full of gratitude for all the years we all have been together.

This weekend, I might just as well have been George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life."
I feel like the richest woman on earth.

The Magic of Mayo

On my wall hangs a cross stitched verse from a song that reads:

Sometimes
Not often enough
We reflect upon the good things.
And those thoughts always center around those we love.
And I think about those people who mean so much to me
and for so many years have made so very happy.
And I count the times I have forgotten to say
Thankyou and just how much I love them.

Made by Mayo.
I am thinking a lot about my friend, Mayo.
Mayo who is everywhere I look.
On my walls.
On my shelves.
In my books.
In my kitchen cabinets.
There isn't a room in my house that doesn't have a piece of Mayo in it.
Even the guest bathroom has a watercolor from Priest Lake.
On the way to the garage there are pictures of our sons, as children in cowboy hats riding wooden stick horses and as young men ready to graduate high school.
My home is filled with pictures of our two families intertwined in good times and in bad.
On my dresser, in a small brass frame, there is a photograph taken by Mayo of my father in a familiar pose on the beach in San Clemente digging a sand castle with Mayo's daughter, Melissa who was no more than four years old.
Mayo's photographs capturing every gathering, every party, every important moment are everywhere.

Mayo was one of my first calls when Daddy dropped dead.
And Mayo was the last person with me by my Mother's bedside the night before she passed.
Mayo took the last pictures of Mother and me together.
Mayo was the first one at my door the day I got a sudden and shocking phone call that my beloved student Ben's father had killed himself two weeks after Ben had started college.

Mayo can turn a trinket into a treasure.
She helped me with every Tri-School Theatre show creating "gift items" to sell.
Countless trips to Shinodas
Inspired descriptions of keepsakes -
a Beautifully faceted acrylic violin for Fiddler.
Customized Noah's Ark gift cards for Children of Eden.

The Brian Shucker Inspiration Award was created in Mayo's living room.
Mayo's home holds memories of my first bridal shower over thirty years ago - a kitchen shower at which my ignorance of kitchen utensils became obvious with each opening. At that shower, Mayo gave me a recipe box filled with hand written recipe cards, a trifle bowl, and a cook book holder. I still use them.
My children now grown, still fall asleep at Christmas time on special personalized pillow cases made by Mayo. My Christmas tree is full of Merry Crismon ornaments.
When I put together the Beatrix Potter themed nursery for my first born, Mayo made matching accessories.
A framed cross stitched Beatrix Potter picture with the name and birth date of my daughter stitched into the image.
September 16th - a birth date shared by our two eldest.

I met Mayo in the assembly hall at Rosary High School on book buying day my Freshman year.
Turned out, Mayo was my French Teacher.
Mayo was my Drama Teacher.
Mayo was my Typing Teacher - even though Mayo couldn't type.
Mayo moved away in my junior year. My cedar chest is full of letters from Mayo.
When Mayo returned the next year, she was expecting a baby.

I remember sitting in English class on March 9, 1977 when Sr. JoAnn announced over the loudspeaker that Mrs. Crismon had given birth to a baby girl. The announcement was to the whole student body - but I knew something they didn't. That baby girl was named
Amy.

I remember getting a phone call when I was away at college, that Amy had had a cerebral hemorrhage. Amy went on to be involved in Tri-School Theatre. I sang at her wedding
I remember getting a phone call just before Mayo was headed in to have a premature C-Section on December 23, 1986.
She asked Steve and me to be baby Jake's Godparents.
Jake and Brendan have grown up like brothers.
Mayo is Brendan's Godmother.

From Clarkston to Cayucos
from Washington to Maine
from souvenir shop to souvenir shop
My life memories are melded with Mayo.

And now, my friend, Mayo, is having a double mastectomy.
Breast Cancer may change Mayo's cup size
but it cannot change the warmth of her bosom.
Mayo has three children, but
Mayo is and will always be the loving, nurturing Mother for whom we all yearn.

That is the Magic of Mayo.