3-16-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 7

We took Old Clairton Road all the way out through Jefferson Township,PA,chugging along in our big blue Pontiac station wagon. Back in the day, when gas was 36 cents a gallon and we had to count on finding a stray quarter in Dad’s easy chair cushion to even afford gas, Mom used to put the gear in neutral at the top of each hill and only switch to drive if it didn’t make it up the next hill on its own. We kids would thrust our upper bodies forward on the count of three, trying to help it along. All this effort was to get ourselves out to Bry and Ann Nelson’s house.

Bry and Ann had a palace of a place, with air conditioning, and plenty of yard and toys and kids to play with. I thought it was paradise. But I recall the grownups talking as they stood on the back porch, their eyes scanning the landscape behind the house. The lush, thick, sweetly scented hillside just past their upscale neighborhood was being scraped clean. Strip mining had, almost in one deep breath, torn the top layer off the face of the earth and left the under-layer raw and flat and exposed. I remember looking out over the scarred earth, where cicadas once gathered for their nightly chorus, where deer had nestled in beds of green, and whole flocks of birds once nested without being seen. I remember, even in my mindless youth, feeling a pang of loneliness when I first really noticed this stunned piece of newly exposed earth. I felt sorry for the loss.

Last night, driving home from a day full of teaching, I pondered what my cousins might have been doing that day. I imagined them gathered from their distant homes; Alaska, Florida, Texas, and Tennessee; reunited in the place where they had been raised. They have been brought together in love and grief around their mother, my Aunt Becky. I imagined them dressing her well-spent body in sacred robes, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead; touching her with the strength required of one trying to shift a lifeless body and the tenderness borne of love and loss. Few things compel grown children to return in such a united way.

I thought, too, about myself, and my siblings, and the other cousins of our generation. We have lost our top layer. With the passing of our Aunt Becky the last of the familiar scene of our sheltered lives is gone. We are now the top layer. The comforting carpet of those who were the protectors of our childhood has been scraped away and we find ourselves exposed.  I realized that the next series of passing’s will be us. We position ourselves, like it or not, like the layer of earth back East where they stip-mined for coal behind Ann and Bry Nelson’s house.

I think it fitting, don’t you, that Rebecca Parrish Miskin was the last to go? She, whose name is pressed into the side of powerful farm implements: Miskin Scrapers. Earth movers.

Even more fitting, because she, and all those who shared her home and her blood in that generation, really did “move the earth” for us.

The original Miskin Scraper

Tomorrow we will move the earth for her, there in the familiar Idaho soil. Once she is soundly tucked in, it will forever thereafter be hallowed ground.

If you want to know a little more about her, click on this:  Becky Miskin's Obituary

3-15-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 6

When you leave the pack, like we did when our family moved from Idaho to Pittsburgh PA, you are prone to feel like you no longer belong. It helps to go visit. The love still remains. But the belonging is iffy.

It always felt to us, the Hansen arm of the Parrish clan, that we were the proverbial black sheep of the family. Mom had proven her rebel soul when she was younger, and moving her family so far away sealed the deal. No one intended to make us feel that way. We just did.

Our dad, Lewis, was apparently a brilliant mathematician. (I did not inherit that gift). He worked for the Atomic Energy Commission out in the Arco desert in southeastern Idaho. When I was five-years-old he was promoted and transferred to Pittsburgh. It was a big shift for us. My poor mom. I didn't realize what a lonely thing it must have been for her to leave that big family of hers and her close friends in Shelley, Idaho. We have old home movies of Thanksgiving dinners where my aunts and uncles sat around the table with us. That never happened again after we moved. Summer was the holy place of reunion. It was always up to us to make our way back home if we wanted to see the people we loved.

But then there was that year when we got the news that the Miskin's were going to come east to visit us! To visit US! I remember the awesome feeling that accompanied that news. Libby and I ran out to the crab apple tree in our front yard and started swinging from our favorite branch. Mom was smiling, and our cousins were coming, and all was right with the world!

I was young then. I don't have vivid memories of the actuality of their coming. We have a few photos to prove it really happened. I don't now how long they stayed. I think we were a stop between Washington DC and New York. But the "happy factor" that came with the anticipation, the feeling of being worth coming to visit, was out of this world!

3-14-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 5

SISTER TALK

The Parrish sisters:
L-R, Back to front:Edna, Ruby, Ruth, Mary, Mae, Becky, Afton

When you're a kid there really is never a time when you're not learning something. For good or for bad, kids are sponges.

One of the dandy benefits of writing every day, and running out of things you think you want to say, is that little non-descript moments start to bubble up in your brain, and they gain prominence by default.

Since last week when Aunt Becky started her journey Home, she has been much on my mind. Her presence there has uncovered many tiny snips of memory, and in the process has cinched the ties that bind me to her. I can see the value in God telling us to pray always. It keeps our relationship with him prominent in our brains, the way Aunt Becky holds a place of prominence right now because I am constantly thinking about her and my relationship with her.

I first loved my mother's younger sister because I knew my mother loved her. 

I have always felt a deep sadness that my mom and her little sister lost their mom when they were young. Becky was 9 years old. Mom was 14. That whole family not only lost their mom, but it felt like they also lost their dad. Not long after Lizzy died, George remarried. His bride was young, I believe she was about the age of his older kids. She already had children. Becky and mom shifted between living with various brothers and sisters who were married at the time. The whole picture makes me sad. But I can see, all these years later, a treasure that emerged from that sadness. My mom and her siblings turned to each other, out of emotional necessity. My Uncle Parks brought my mother in to live with him and his wife until she was old enough to marry and have a place of her own. 

My mother's family, not long before her
mother died. Mom is on the front row far right.
Becky is in the middle.

When one of my daughters has a heartache or a struggle, they pick up the phone and call me. This keeps my mother-heart warm and soft and pliable. And it keeps our relationship the same. That same heart-spot, for my mom and her sisters, was filled instead by each other.

I have a distinct memory of lying on a pile of laundry in the basement of Aunt Becky's house. It was cool down there, and it smelled like laundry detergent and fabric softener and starch mixed with damp cement. I remember lying there, my little-girl knees curled up toward my chest in the coolness and the softness, drifting off in a summer afternoon nap to the music of my mother and her sister's conversation as they sorted and washed and folded. The push and the pull of their voices were like a choral call and response. I'd hear them hush to a whisper when matters became serious and private. I'd hear laughter shaking me from my semi-slumber. They stitched their lives together with words. I learned, in that place where we do not realize we are learning, how sister-stitching is done.

When we returned to Pittsburgh there were late nights, when long-distance rates were cheaper, when I could hear my mother talking on the telephone through the thin walls of our apartment. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was talking to one of her sisters. The sound made me feel safe, and calm, and I went to sleep peacefully to that love-song only sisters can sing to each other.

Because I am older now, and there are long strands of silence in my daily life, I pause now and again to listen. I think... and maybe this is my imagination...maybe not...that I can hear in almost indiscernible tones, a heavenly chorus of laughter somewhere in the distance.

I imagine my mom and every one of her sisters, finally reunited. There's an added harmony of their mother's voice in there, too. They are catching up, like sisters do, around some divine card table or a gilded quilting frame. And also, because I have such a luxury right now, I sometimes allow my eyes to flutter closed so I can drift off to slumber by the music of angelic sister-talk.

My own sisters and I have learned this language. Even our brothers know it. Its a dialect of the larger language of Love.

3-13-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 4

Aunt Becky and Uncle Richard

Uncle Richard stood behind the tripod he had set up in the living room. He carefully set his prized Hasselblad camera on top and turned the screw at the base to secure it. He then went into a half hour explanation of aperture and shutter speed and other photographer-talk. My brother George listened intently. I just stared at Dave.

I was an eighteen-year-old BYU freshman who had fallen head-over-heels in love with a first year law student, who also happened to be George's room mate. By Thanksgiving we were engaged, with a wedding date set for June. The three of us; George, Dave and I, decided to take a weekend trip up to Ucon, Idaho to visit our Aunt Becky and Uncle Richard. We could introduce Dave, and as an added bonus I could work on a project for my Physics of Light and Photography class. Uncle Richard was in his "photo phase" and had acquired a couple high end cameras, the ultimate one being that Hasselblad. I took this picture of George on that trip, developed it myself in the lab at BYU. I recall zero of what I learned in that class. But we do have this nice photo, and some sweet memories.

George plays a left-handed guitar.

I loved introducing Dave to my family. And I was super proud of him, so I was kind of showing him off. That little house in Ucon, Idaho held my heart. I realize now that the place meant less than the people. When they moved, my love went to Ammon with them. 

I don't recall much of what we did that weekend, besides taking photos and the sleepy lilting raspy voice of Uncle Richard explaining things I really didn't care to learn. What I remember most is this:

Just before we left to return to Utah, Aunt Becky asked me to join her downstairs. I sunk into that basement, down the stairway and into the family room like I had throughout my childhood. Aunt Becky patted the cushion on the couch next to her, inviting me to sit. There was an air of soberness and mystery, and I wondered what was up. 

Aunt Becky held a little yellow bud vase, which had been filled with popcorn kernels. The top had been covered with Scotch tape, holding the popcorn safely in the glass receptacle. I smiled. I raised my eyebrows, and I smiled. Before she handed it to me she said something like this:

"I remember what it was like to be in love, and to have such strong feelings awakened, knowing that Richard was going to be my husband. You have a long time to wait before you marry Dave. We really like him, and we can see he really loves you. I want you to keep this popcorn in a prominent place to remind you that some things need to wait to be popped. And when the feelings start to get the best of either of you, just go pop some popcorn instead."

I still have that little gold vase of unpopped popcorn somewhere in my little can of treasures downstairs. At least I think I do. I never could bring myself to throw it away. It's a symbol of the tender love and devotion of my Aunt Becky. I felt like she was representing my mother, who lived a couple thousand miles away from me at the time. I felt like she was protecting the pure-hearted girl she knew dwelt deep inside me, and she didn't want us to make a mistake we might regret. It was a gesture based on love - for me, for the Lord, and for the family that would come to Dave and me.

3-12-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 3

DRIVE-IN

I sat in the back seat, between my sister and my cousin, on a hot southeastern-Idaho summer night.  It was Monday, just before dusk, which at my Aunt Becky's house meant Family Home Evening. In the past, when we were visiting on Monday evenings, there had been some sort of spiritually based lesson, and some songs about Jesus or family, and a treat at the end. But this Monday night we piled into their station wagon and headed to the Drive-In theatre for a Home Evening activity. This was a big deal to us, the visitors from the east. I think the only other time I'd seen a movie on a big screen before was Mary Poppins at the wonderful old theatre in downtown Pittsburgh, with its velvet curtain, frescoed ceiling and gilded columns. I'd certainly seen Drive-In's before, from the outside at least, and I always wondered what magic might dwell behind that massive brick wall hovering over those acres of parking lot.

Uncle Richard turned off the old Yellowstone Highway and took his place in line behind a long stream of cars and trucks, waiting to approach the striped cement admission shack. We sat there, the vibrating car lurching forward an inch at a time, exhaust wafting through the car windows, facilitated by the ever present Idaho wind. Finally, when we approached the window, I read the sign with price of admission:

Adults 12+ - $4
Children 3-11 - $1
Under 3 - Free

From my perch in the middle seat of the car, I leaned forward, over the head of one of my small cousins, and told my aunt and uncle that I could be 11.

Uncle Richard and Aunt Becky responded, simultaneously:

"But are you eleven?"

It took me a few seconds to respond: "Well, I just turned twelve, but they don't know that."

Aunt Becky shifted her shoulders and looked back at me, her eyes full of love, not judgment:

"We are happy to have you with us, and we will pay for our twelve-year-old to watch the movie with us."

My chest rises and falls with more intensity, and deeper love, as I recall this quiet little life lesson they taught me on that hot summer night of my youth.

I remember other lessons they taught.

Though they are both gone now, they continue to teach me.

Becky and Richard Miskin
circa 1970
with what I call the "second batch"
my younger cousins
Mark, David, Gina and Michelle

3-11-18 MY AUNT BECKY part 2

There was never, ever, a time when we visited our Aunt Becky, even for a short stop to say Hi, when she did not sit us down at her kitchen table and serve some sort of grub. It was this way with my mother and all her sisters. I'm pretty sure it was genetic.

Twenty years ago I wrote a little snippet about the generous spirit of our grandfather George Parrish. It was published in Guideposts Magazine, and subsequently in various online publications. 

I see from whence Aunt Becky's goodness came.

The Knife

One Sunday afternoon our family gathered around our big oak table for dinner. Soon my daughter Kate’s laughter rose above the talk. “Gram, you’re silly!” she said. We all turned to see my mom delicately lifting to her mouth a small strand of peas on the blade of her knife. All but one pea made it, and everyone clapped. Then Mom told us the story behind her unorthodox technique:

“When I was little we didn’t have much. It was the Depression. But we did have a table full of food because my father grew wonderful vegetables. Lots of hoboes who had jumped from the train wandered onto our property, looking for a meal. More often than not an extra seat was pulled up to our dinner table.

“One summer afternoon I was sweeping the kitchen floor when my father’s voice came through the screen door: ‘Lizzy, set another plate. We have company tonight.’ Our guest paused in the doorway, and dipped his head in a gesture of gratitude. ‘Looks like he doesn’t speak much English,’ Dad said, ‘but he’s hungry like we are. His name is Henry.’

“When dinner was ready Henry stood until we were all seated, then gently perched on the edge of his chair, his head bowed and his hat in his lap. The blessing was said and dishes were passed from hand to hand.

“We all waited, as was proper, for our guest to take the first bite. Henry must have been so hungry he didn’t notice us watching him as he grabbed his knife. Carefully he slid the blade into the pile of peas before him, and then lifted a quivering row to his mouth without spilling a single pea. He was eating with his knife! I looked at my sister May and we covered our mouths to muffle our snickers. Henry took another knife-full, and then another.

“My father, taking note of the glances we were exchanging, firmly set down his fork. He looked me in the eye, then took his knife and thrust it into the peas on his plate. Most of them fell off as he attempted to lift them to his mouth, but he continued until all the peas were gone.

“Dad never did use his fork that evening, because Henry didn’t. It was one of my father’s silent lessons in acceptance. He understood the need for this man to maintain his dignity, to feel comfortable in a strange place with people of different customs. Even at my young age I understood the greatness of my father’s simple act of brotherhood.”

Mom paused, looked at her grandchildren, and winked as she plowed her knife into a mountain of peas.

Contributed by Cori Connors, of Farmington, Utah, to Guideposts, March 1997, p. 36

George and Lizzie Parrish
(fish for dinner, with fresh peas)