Well, we’re here. Is it all it was cracked up to be?

Yes on good days, no on bad? Good or bad, that time keeps a-flying. How are we making our time here on earth count? If you are a mom like me with older children you’ve most likely gone through your own identity crises along the way. However those benchmarks of the past have stacked up, they are just that – in the past. Who are you now? Who do you want to be now that the little kiddies are big kiddies? One day at a time has been my philosophy of late. Because that’s about as far as I can reasonably look ahead.

I don’t miss parent-teacher conferences. I don’t squirm in bleachers with my heart in my throat as the child nears the finish line or reaches for that pass. And I don’t need to outfit four boys for the start of each school year. Don’t have to put toys in Kmart Christmas layaway either. This is all good. Life’s stresses have lessened. There’s more time to think, and more time to just “be.”

Hopefully to be what God wants me to be. For once in my life I finally go with the flow. My sons are as formed as they can be. They must live their own lives, and I must live mine. So, no matter how quickly or slowly calendar time passes, I know I’m headed where I am supposed to be if I keep my eyes upward asking, seeking, knocking…and trusting. Really!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Today at bible study we were told that to live a Christian life we must let others set our agenda. Certainly that has been true for me in the past six months. Life had a definite purpose. But now as I am getting back to “my” life I find the lull a little disconcerting at times. I long for peace, yet when I experience that peace in the house for more than an hour or two I get bored or lonely. When I wake up to work around my home I know my family appreciates the effort I’ve mustered in getting things back to normal, but who dictates what’s normal? I wrestled with similar issues two weeks ago. I asked my friend what I should write about. She suggested writing about the lessons learned having raised four boys and discovering that I now need a new purpose in my life. She also suggested I write about the pockets of joy I uncover in every day – the usually small yet significant cherries on the sundaes of my days.

Everyone has them, you know. Those pockets of joy which sometimes may seem so insignificant you may not comprehend their importance until you avidly begin to search for them. Today my friends and I were told about another friend who needed some cheering up. After that the only thing I could think about was cheering her up, visiting her. Those piles of clothes on my dining room table from yesterday could stay there a little longer. Heck, they were folded, and that’s a whole lot better than dirty! So I called a buddy and we drove to spread some cheer. Someone had asked us to do something for someone in need and we did it; it’s so simple. I let another person plan my agenda. I felt like a Christian today, plain and simple. I didn’t save the world, I didn’t eradicate hunger, but I said “yes” to someone whom God placed directly in my path.

When I was a mom of young ones – four boys five years apart – I knew plenty about giving life to others, about giving so much of your life away that I wondered if there’d ever be enough of me left to have a life once my sons grew up. I have wrestled with those issues for a good ten years now. Bet you didn’t know I was a wrestler until today, did you? Oh, back and forth I’ve fretted both sides of that mom coin. How much is enough? How much is too much? Why do I seem to be evaporating? What do I want out of life?

I’m not much closer to the answers, probably because the key player in my questions is me – and “me” is not what God is all about. God is about giving self away – to all comers. The insistent toddlers who won’t give us a moment’s peace strengthen us for the adolescent and high school woes. And just when we think that there’s light at the end of our tunnel our young adults throw us for loops as they try their wings. Moms always do for others. Hopefully, we Catholic moms keep uppermost in our minds why we do for others – to be like the One who gave His all for all of us.

Have a good week, ladies!

~ Maureen



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

How many times on Saturday did I hear family members say, “We finally have our lives back. Life can get back to normal.” But I’m not sure that I really want to go back. Back to what? What is “normal”? I want to go forward. I’m just not too sure where forward is. For the past six months I have known exactly where I needed to be and what I needed to do. First, it was daily visits to the hospital to see my dad while keeping an eye on my mom at home. Next, our entire family pulled together to make our parents’ transition to their new home as painless as possible. Then came the house auction and this past weekend the barn auction. The final step is the sale of the house itself, but that’s cake compared to what my family and I have already been through.

My own five men have certainly endured much with me in the past months. They have listened to my woes, carried seemingly endless loads of “stuff” back and forth; they have done without dinners, gotten used to Mother Hubbard cupboards, and have virtually given up on what used to look like their home as I brought in more and more of my parents’ things. Right now 15 bins sit in our living room filled with photos and treasures to sort for my siblings.

God personally penned my instruction manual since April. He showed me step-by-step just what needed to be done, and infused me with enough energy to accomplish it. So as October comes to an end, and my life’s possibilities are stretched out in front of me, what do I do? What do I choose? How do I choose wisely?

I think it’s time to take life a little more easy, make the atmosphere here calm (or as calm as it can be with five alpha dogs sharing the same space!) The holidays are fast approaching. Summer disappeared into oblivion this year. I want autumn to linger. Time to change the living room motif from musty mementos to black and orange spooky creatures. Time to bake pumpkin pies and roast turkeys. Time to write my Christmas list and check it twice remembering the many sacrifices which my family has made for me so that I could spend time doing whatever needed done for my parents. It’s time to give back.

Homemade apple pie just like Mom used to bake sounds like a fine start to me. Kitchen, here I come!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

As my nostalgic thoughts switched to my dad, I remembered my mom popping Pop’s popcorn every night of her life while I was growing up. The little red pot took its place on the burner next to the big chrome pot on the stove. No microwaves back then. Vigorous and continuous shaking of popcorn in hot oil kept the kernels from burning while the butter melted in the little pot. These days, however, I never pop popcorn without Mr. Redenbacher’s microwave recipe, so I can’t fathom a need for this tiny red pot. But I had to have it. So I do.

The name “Pop” could quite possibly be synonymous with “butter” because my dad doesn’t just like butter, he loves butter. Nowadays my dad continues to eat all his meals with his tablemate of 69 years – his wife, my mom. That hasn’t changed, but what has changed is the locale: the dining room in assisted living. Same spouse, different dining room, but same main ingredient: butter. Pop never runs out of butter because he stealthily steals the individual pats of butter and stashes them in his mini-fridge just in case he needs them at his next meal. He takes a pocketful to every lunch and dinner.

One distant dinner comes to mind: My husband and I had just begun to date, and my parents took us to Red Lobster. After my dad ordered his whole live lobster he whipped out a stick of butter from his suitcoat pocket. I thought I would die! He handed it to the waitress and asked her to melt it for him. Yes, Pop loves his real butter. No margarine for him. And apparently, no cholesterol trouble because Pop’s 90.

Popcorn, butter. Lobster, butter. Everything, butter. I think my dad would be hard-pressed to choose between popcorn or lobster as his favorite butter buddy. I examine my new/old lobster warming dish as I wash it. The paint on the bright red lobster hasn’t faded much at all in 60-some years. On special occasions I remember my mom serving my dad lobster at home. Mom poured boiling water into the bottom dish which melted the butter in the top dish. No one eats a whole lobster as my dad does – no one. It’s a sight of beauty…and repulsion…when he relishes every morsel down to the green guts. I first witnessed my dad’s dissection of dead lobsters when I was a little girl at Iacomini’s and Sanginiti’s in Akron, Ohio – local Italian restaurants. And that is also where I tasted my first lobster. To this day I love lobster dipped in real butter. I have gone so far as to request real butter instead of the oily imitation some restaurants serve – I am my father’s daughter – but I have not yet stashed a stick in my purse. Remembering my big, tall father in his best suit sitting at the fancy table wearing a funny-looking lobster bib almost always brings a smile.

Except for this day, of course, when butter memories form slippery tears.



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

20 years ago my house was stuffed with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, trucks and Legoes. Stepping barefoot on a Lego in the dark was akin to stabbing a needle in my eye. A few minutes ago I was awakened by the sound of a crash. I did what any red-blooded American woman would do: I woke up my husband. None-too-pleased, he humored me and searched the house. His search netted a wire record rack which had fallen from one of many piles of clutter around the house, namely, all the treasures belonging to my parents with which I could not part after they moved into assisted living.

My dad adores music. Consequently, he accumulated – I kid you not – 100,000 records. Records of all types and sizes. One summer when I was probably 10, I remember cataloguing the opera records, neatly printing all pertinent information on a little index card and filing it away in the small green metal box. I found those old boxes at the farm and recognized my juvenile penmanship. I wanted to bring them home with me, but I had to draw the line somewhere, right? I left them. But, oh my goodness, what I didn’t leave! What my family has packed into vehicles and brought home truly boggles the mind. We rented a storage unit. And still we are swimming in a sea of junk. Good junk, but junk none-the-less.

So what’s a girl to do? I don’t want to end up one of the sad cases on Hoarders. I want to be able to walk through my hallway on the way to my bedroom without disturbing a wire record rack which tauntingly waits until I settle into bed to crash to the floor. I don’t need any of the stuff I’ve brought from my parents’ house. Why do I want it so badly? Am I Linus clutching my security blanket? I can’t have my parents forever, so I want their stuff – is that it, Sigmund?

Whatever it is, it is beginning to drive me completely nuts. Last weekend I washed all the sparkly glassware I bought from the first house auction, Windexed my china cabinet shelves and lovingly placed each piece. It really looks beautiful. Of course, I had to remove other things that were occupying the space which leaves more boxes in my dining room. My china cabinet has become a microcosm of my wishes for my entire house. The ideal. To have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Ha ha ha! In this lifetime?

When my kids were younger I blamed the messes on them. I still blame most messes on them. I blame this old house with no closets or cupboards or drawers. I blame my husband for not building closets and cupboards and drawers. I blame my parents for making me love them so much that I can’t part with their things. Surely, I am not to blame. It wasn’t my hand at the auction that kept cropping up to bid on every single thing that my little heart desired, was it? And by the time the auction was winding down as we followed the auctioneer through the labyrinth of neat rows of merchandise I didn’t even have to raise my hand; the auctioneer merely looked at me as I nodded acceptance of more and more and MORE boxes of “treasures” which surely I couldn’t let go to a total stranger for a buck or two. Right? I mean that would have been crazy! Right?

Sadly, the evil little twist in this scary tale remains to be unveiled, for in a few weeks we’re having another sale – the contents of the barn. Each day my brothers unearth more really cool stuff. Really cool stuff which I have no recollection of ever having seen. Really cool stuff that surely may follow me home. Anybody have a straight jacket and blindfold I can borrow for the big day?



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

During the past few years I have learned some rather hard lessons myself. Appreciation has rarely been on the lips of my sons, ages 20-25. All four creatures live at home while working and attending college. And all four creatures are now grown men. Yes, I’ve admitted it – they are men, not my little boys any longer. Their personalities and habits have long been formed. They want to be self-sufficient, but aren’t. They want to make their own way in the world, but can’t – not yet. Soon two sons may be moving out to be on their own. I’m not holding my breath.

What I am doing is harping an awfully lot. “Take out the trash, wash the dishes, clean up your messes.” It’s the proverbial broken record. Why don’t they listen? Why don’t they understand that I know what is best for the smooth running of our home? Lately, I have spent many hours at my parents’ house. Since Mom and Pop moved into assisted living, my brothers, sisters-in-law, husband and I have put in much time readying the house for auction. Each day I spent at the farm was a day when I could readily see what I’d accomplished. Usually one room took one day. I walked in, looked around, decided what needed to be done, and did it, methodically moving through the house room by room.

And when I cleaned up a room no one followed in my wake to immediately mess it up, unlike here at home. How many dishes have we ladies washed? How many socks have we picked up from the floor? How many cupboards and drawers have we shut? When I shut a cupboard at the farm it stayed shut. Now, it is true that a living, breathing family no longer lives there, but it sure was refreshing to walk into that house each new day and see the previous day’s progress. Guess who else noticed? And guess who else complimented my efforts and made me feel appreciated? My brothers. Each and every one of them. They literally turned my head; I’m not used to such praise. And it felt mighty good.

Auction #1 was held three weeks ago, and a few days passed before my husband and I returned to the farm to grab a second load of furniture we’d bought. Walking into the big, empty kitchen our voices actually echoed. Surveying the vacant room I turned my head and what did my surprised eyes see but the grandfather clock – in the kitchen. The grandfather clock on which my husband and I bid at the auction. However we dropped out of the bidding when the price got a little too steep. We’d bought very many items already and thought we’d better pass on the clock. But there was the clock big as life. With a sign taped to it: “A timely reminder of all the work you’ve done ~ Your brothers.”

Accolades, appreciation, applause. I got all three! Maybe not for being a mom, but for being a sister. I had lost that clock. It was gone. Someone else bought it. But apparently my brothers made the new buyers an offer they couldn’t refuse. For me. To thank me. If I thought that clock was special before, it’s nothing compared to how special it is to me now. (Thanks, guys!) Auction #2 here we come!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

I’ve worked so many hours in the past month getting the place ready for the auction that I hadn’t allowed myself much time to think, to remember. When I sorted through the endless photos I barely paused to glimpse, merely tossing them into boxes; it became a matter of reaching that finish line – being ready for the first auction day. And we were ready. Besides all the family treasures which I unearthed, I discovered another unexpected surprise that doesn’t fit into a box.

Being the youngest of six children with four older brothers, while growing up my closest contact had always been with my lone sister. Throughout the years she included me in her life the most. Several years ago, my sister passed away leaving my brothers with just one sister and me with none. But by that time I was married with my own family of four sons. My time and thoughts revolved around my “new” family, seeing my brothers and their families mostly on holidays.

That is, until my dad fell, forming that tiny snowball which has careened down the Swiss Alps gathering speed and snow. The snowball is now huge. My brothers and I have discovered the wonderful worlds of POAs, DNRs, assisted living and pre-paid funerals. And auctions. With the house auction down we have one more to go – the barn. My brain can’t quite fathom that auction yet, but my brothers have taken the lead and when October comes we will be ready for that one too. I have much faith in us all.

Going from seeing my brothers on only a handful of holidays to being in constant contact with them for the past four months has presented its own unique set of challenges at times. We’ve butt heads. We don’t always agree. Time passes. We forge ahead. We’ve become real family again, not merely polite people visiting on holidays. And with family comes conflict, but we never forget that we love each other. It’s really pretty simple. Mom and Pop would be proud.

I discovered my unexpected gift during a blistering 90 degree day last week: my brother Tim. I realized how well we work together becoming a team without getting in each other’s way. We agreed about how to tackle problems. We took breaks together, Tim emerging from the dungeon of the basement, me descending from the stifling heat upstairs, both seeking the cool air in the living room. We looked forward to the tangible results at the end of every day. The place was looking good.

While sitting on the couch one day before the house auction I shared my idea with Tim of possibly bidding on the very couch on which I was sitting if it went for a cheap price. I’d leave it at the farm. This way we’d all have somewhere inside to sit when we begin working in the barn, and come to seek the cool living room air once more. Tim had already thought of this, and said he’d planned to bid on the chair on which he was sitting. Great minds think alike.

Auction day came and went, thanks to everyone’s efforts, and when auction item # 168 – blue chair – came up for bid, my brother Tim raised his hand winning the chair for five whole dollars! Looking back at him our eyes met. He chuckled as we shared a knowing smile. Unfortunately I let the couch go to another bidder. I couldn’t quite fathom bidding on one more thing; trust me, I’d already bought plenty! So with only one remaining chair in the house, I’d say that Timmy’s in the catbird seat. I may have lost the couch, but I found a 365-day brother.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Driving into my driveway a few minutes ago I thought my eyes were deceiving me. No cars. No trucks. No sons’ friends’ vehicles. An empty drive. What bliss! I threw off the work clothes and slipped into the evening’s attire, and it’s only 4:05 in the afternoon. But that’s OK by me, more than OK – a necessary building block for my precariously perched sanity.

Last night I couldn’t sleep, catching however many winks fit into a couple hours. I awoke this morning and left bright and early on mental autopilot all the way to the auction site, as I now think of the farm, my parents’ home. The big difference today was that other people were doing the work. And I liked it! An hour later, one misinformed fellow arrived for the auction. There’s just one little problem: He was 25 hours early – the auction isn’t until tomorrow! And this would-be bidder lived two hours away. Sorry, Mister, come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Yikes! It’s so close. Oh my, what a day it will be. But tonight is tonight, and I am alone. Alone to watch a marathon of Gilmore Girl reruns, alone to soak in a hot tub, alone to read my book amid peace and quiet before the noise and nerves of tomorrow. Alone to do whatever my little heart desires. Bring on the cupcakes!

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Most every day I unearth more buried treasure. It’s fun and I enjoy it. One of my brothers works in the barn while I work in the house. He shares my love of making such a difference each day as he separates oodles of car parts from thousands of records – 78’s, 45’s, 33 1/3’s, and so many books and old farm machinery and, and, and…! Our father is and always has been a packrat of the first degree. Batteries under hoods manufactured in the 1940s are charged up, flat tires inflated, new tires ordered. One can no longer walk into a Goodyear store and purchase a tire to fit a 1940 Cadillac.

Since our dad fell back in April and the dominoes began their decided descent, my priorities have aligned: Something needs done – I do it. Certainly my brothers must share this newly found philosophy with me as they are working so diligently to ensure that we are ready for both auctions. One auction just won’t handle all the stuff. So we’re having two – one for the house contents and one for the barn. We wake up each day and know where we must be and what we must be doing. Pretty simple. And very satisfying. I’m not wishy-washy in my thinking anymore. God emblazoned the answer to one of my most persistent questions onto an oft-prayed-for, if imaginary, billboard. Even I couldn’t mistake this one! Each day I follow God’s “to do” list.

Checking off the upstairs, I moved my campaign downstairs. Reaching far back into kitchen cupboards I traveled down memory lane. I spied the little egg cups into which my mom placed soft-boiled eggs whenever I was sick. My mom was a master at breaking off the tops of eggs, a trait I did not inherit. I can taste the dippy toast strips which fit perfectly into the opened eggs. My mom’s rolling pin and pie pans have been idle for far too long. How many apple pies did we eight enjoy in the course of our family’s life? I remember the oblong milk glass pedestal bowl overflowing with stuffed peppers. (The tomatoey sauce always overflowed onto the dinner table.) I almost forgot the cake pedestal which cradled the Dobosh Torte – the 18-layer cake my grandma taught my mom to make. The cake I’ve never baked yet. What am I waiting for?

Yesterday my optimistic mood took a turn for the worse. The house auction is in six days, no longer in the future, for the future has arrived. Six short days. In six days the general public will be tramping through my parents’ home touching their treasures, bidding on my memories, hijacking the whole kit and caboodle to their own homes at the last pound of the gavel. On certain items my fellow bidders won’t stand a chance; I WILL be the highest bidder. But so much will be carted away to parts unknown to adorn others’ homes and antique dealers’ walls. My parents are in their 90s; they are antiques themselves! So, like God, I may rest on the seventh day, and may actually exhale a huge sigh of relief. To onlookers I will appear perfectly fine, but when house full becomes house empty an irretrievable part of me will be forever lost.



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Every cherished memento placed neatly: my mom’s 1937 high school letter jacket, the wedding dress she wore as she walked down the aisle toward my dad in 1941, the 1950’s den mother uniform, a much loved “Velveteen” bear belonging to my oldest brother, my parent’s firstborn. His baby book. The only baby book. Dates and weights and doctor visits which a young mother of one found the time to record upon the pages. Babies two through six had no such baby books. We just had a whole lot of love.

Today I unearthed my mom’s original 1919 birth certificate among the books in her bedroom. The hospital spelled her name wrong. Or she’s been spelling it wrong for the last 91 years. Depends on your perspective. But my money’s on my mom. I hear the same thing happened to Oprah. Funny in an odd sort of way.

A lifetime of memories waiting to be found. Pages of flowers torn out of magazines – no doubt with the hope to duplicate the lovely blooms in the backyard. Early American furniture advertisements. Newspaper pages – although I searched the headlines I could not make heads nor tails for saving some of the yellowed crinkly pieces. But they were important to my mom. My dad has saved his share of newspapers also. One such copy from 1934 in which England warns “Nazi Germany” to leave Austria alone. Had they only listened.

Had I only listened to every pearl of wisdom from my parents’ lips, and always heeded their advice. Not the name of the game though, is it? More likely we are all destined, like Germany, to learn from our mistakes. Hopefully, we have time in our lives for reflection, time to remember what was and dream of what may be – a time for every season.

I’ve lived through the heart wrenching time of moving my parents into Assisted Living. Now my brothers and I deal with all that remains at home, or “home home” as my parents nicknamed their real true home of so many years and even more memories. Sure, they understand that their new little apartment is now their home, but the farm is and ever will be “home home.” As I learn more about the parents I already thought I knew so well, I just may learn a little bit more about myself and what makes me tick. Do our parents ever stop teaching us? I sincerely hope not.



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

God does. And that’s why I’m happy. Because all day yesterday I knew I was following God’s roadmap – not my own. I started my yesterday at Mass. A definite plus. Followed by a delightful breakfast with friends. Conquering that first step of sorting and cleaning at my parents’ house came next. I cranked the radio and went to town. I wasn’t a bit sad. I felt happy to be back at the home I shared with my parents for 10 years – the house I visited so frequently in recent years while helping out my folks. I love that place. I even plunked the piano keys just to hear the sound.

My parents made “the farm” home for all who entered, and I’m bound and determined to keep it “home” through this dissembling process. One of the first chores I did was run the dishwasher and put away some dishes. Ironic that as I was washing dishes there my sink sat full of dirty ones here, huh? Funny how that works. Filling boxes. Emptying drawers. Sweeping the floor. Five hours later I left. One room is almost done. This house has many rooms. But I’m not discouraged in the least. I am optimistic that God will direct my and my siblings’ future steps throughout the entire house until we’re done.

These first steps today taught me that this task is not insurmountable. Not at all. Because we four are not alone in this. We’ve got our own personal Coach to guide us and a Cheerleader to spur us on. Ready, set, hut!



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Just a little while ago I was lying on my bed reading the book, “Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World,” by Joanna Weaver. Many spiritual books I can take or leave, but this book is truly speaking to my heart. I am being steered to realize the importance of taking time out of every day to speak to and listen to God. I speak to God all the time throughout the day; there’s nothing new in that. However, my talks with God are in snippets – upon awakening, then thanking, asking, seeking, knocking throughout the day. I do most of the talking. I don’t set aside enough time to listen. I jabber on and on.

I need that quiet place again. I had it once. I worked hard for it, but then I gave it up. Just like that. I simply let my sacred space go bye-bye. Over a year ago I reclaimed the only possible spot in our whole house where I could shut the door, shutting five men out and one Man in. I sorted through tons of junk and claimed my space. And then the ceiling fell down. All over everything. Oh, I was mad! I left it for a long time, finally coaxing my carpenter son into nailing up drywall. And there the room sits as all the furnishings are shoved to one side of the room. I’ve taken to writing on my laptop, so I steal away moments in my bedroom in which to type, but what about that time when I can simply be in God’s presence? I hadn’t known what I was missing until now. And I don’t want to keep missing it.

My mission is clear. I must reclaim God’s and my special place. He has been patiently waiting for me…like always. Maybe He’s been up there every day since the ceiling fell down and I never knew it. That’s a pretty sad thought, now, isn’t it? I went away…like always. Not totally away, but it was as if I took God’s friendship for granted. I knew He would always come to me whenever and wherever I needed Him, so that special quiet time didn’t really matter. Or did it?

It is apparent that God and I need some one-on-one time in a setting that invites Him to fill me with His Presence, His love, His vast knowledge. I need to ask His two cents on what really matters in my life. And more than anything, I must realize that He is steering my ship.

Each month a friend and I enjoy lunch together. There’s next-to-nothing that would keep me from a Julie lunch. We plan, choosing a favorite restaurant at a convenient time for both, we anticipate, e-mailing each other as the day draws near, we meet and talk and talk and listen and listen. Our times are so enjoyable and spirit-lifting that I’m usually e-mailing Julie that very same night scheduling our next lunch date.

How much more special with God? I mean, for crying out loud, it’s God! And He is ALWAYS available. He never has to check His schedule. It’s we who must check ours. Oh gee, sorry God can’t do it this week. Too busy. Maybe next week. C’mon. Wake up, McFly! God invites us. How can we possibly contemplate a thought other than yes?

In the next weeks my priorities will be: showing up when He wants me, not vice-versa; reclaiming our special place; listening far more than talking; and watching the wonders unfold.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Sr. Rosalia would be proud that I remembered the translation. Painstakingly translating Les Miserables in high school French class took the entire year. Or maybe it just felt like it. What a quick segue from joy to misery. Not surprising these days though which is perhaps the most difficult aspect of visiting my parents: my dad has lost his joie de vivre. Pop was the most easy-going guy on the planet before he fell and landed in assisted living – before his whole world turned upside-down. Before mine did too.

In the past few years I’ve had my own ups and downs, and as anyone who writes that phrase knows, it really means more downs than ups. Yet this Tigger manages to bounce back…sort of. But throughout the past several years I have noticed that it takes much more time and effort to right myself – to find something to hold onto which makes me want to wake up in the morning and keep plugging away. Perhaps that’s why I sleep so little anymore. As I compose this it is 4:26 in the morning when the world should be sleeping. How many others are lying awake right now unable to process their lives – wondering what comes next, and not exactly looking forward to it?

It has become harder and harder to visit my dad. My mom continues to brighten like a light bulb when I walk through the door of the nursing home, but not my dad. It becomes increasingly more difficult for me to rally feigned cheeriness. Because Pop has lost his joy for life mine is seriously diminished. Does he lie awake at night wondering where the life he knew suddenly went, as I lie awake at night wondering where my dad went? I miss him. I miss how he used to be. I miss and need what he used to give me. Is that selfish?

I know I have to be the giver now; I get it. But the little girl in me wants to be 3 years old again climbing up on his big belly without a care in the world. I want to go back to that time of joy. Future joy seems pretty shaky right about now. I see incredible sadness on the horizon. But I have to remember the joy: the ripped out articles about writers Pop always saved for me; the file folder entitled “Four Horsemen” my dad made for my boys and chocked full with articles about LeBron James and basketball and track; all Pop’s famous quotes – “Everything in moderation,” “Eat slow everybody,” “Keep plugging away,” “Everything is difficult before it becomes simple”; popcorn; Wild Irish Rose and pockets full of candy; lobster –  witnessing my dad eat a whole lobster is both a thing of beauty and a distinct repulsion; music; opera; records; cars – countless wonderful old car memories. The list is endless.

Maybe as I try to remember the joy, I have to especially remember that fourth famous Pop-ism, “Everything is difficult before it becomes simple.” He’s a smart one – that dad of mine.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

We seem to live in the Do-as-you-please era. The mindset that screams: It’s OK, go ahead. Don’t worry. Be happy. Me, me, me. I’m the most important person on the face of the earth. In fact, God must have created the world solely for me and my pleasure. The heck with the poor, the widow, the orphan. God doesn’t really want me to alter my life in any way to help them in their plights. Besides, they have as good a chance as any to help themselves.

Really??? Can we moms who have been given so much by God reject others’ pleas? Can we turn a blind eye or deaf ear to those in need? I was born a little white baby girl plunked down in the arms of a loving middle-class family. If I were never given another thing by God those first life-altering gifts are more than some people receive their entire lives. But God didn’t stop there – not by a long shot. Blessing after blessing has been bestowed on me and mine.

Yet do I still want more? Yes, yes I do. However, quite recently I finally understand the wisdom of rejection as it applies to me. Jesus, Himself, had to be rejected by His people. That was the plan – the Divine Necessity. Jesus wasn’t to be crowned king of an earthly kingdom; His Kingdom surpassed all worldly comprehension. I’m not supposed to get everything I want. Maybe there’s a reason I am constantly butting heads with my five men. Maybe if I weren’t longing for more many years ago I never would have begun attending daily Mass and weekly Bible study. I am 100% sure that if I’d been a happily contented wife and mother I never would have honed my writing skills.

Years ago my world was very small. Discontented, I rebelled. God pushed me out. He knew it was time for me to leave the nest, so He showed me His world where people come together to pray and learn more about Him. We sit at His feet. We choose the better part. And then we go about our daily round trying our best to give God to others. Rejection isn’t the end of a plan – it’s the beginning of another, tailor-made plan. And guess who the Tailor is?

Whether rejection is from a would-be suitor, or a publishing house (How would I know about that?), or a “not the best applicant for the job” notification, we must put some perspective on the rejection which not only numbs the initial sting, but it frees us for what God intends for our lives. Recently, I’ve begun reading the book, “Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World,” by Joanna Weaver, and I was struck by this explanation to a disappointed Martha when Jesus “sided” with Mary’s decision to sit at Jesus’ feet and listen to the Teacher, rather than help Martha in the kitchen: “But he loved her too much to give her what she wanted. Instead, Jesus gave her what she needed.”

God loves me too much. I can get used to that idea.

So, the next time we feel like a toy on the Island of Misfit Toys, let’s remember we’re there because God loves us too much to put us somewhere we don’t belong.



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

But I own these flowers. I don’t know how much road the township owns and I don’t want to know because running all along my property are these petite beauties. This morning before I left my house after a completely-not-one-wink-of-sleep-night I tossed out a big old hint, “When you guys cut the grass (hope does spring eternal!) don’t cut down the yellow flowers by the road. I want to transplant them.”

Lately my primary sanity moments occur when my hands are knuckle-deep in dirt. That’s about the only time I can tune out all this “life” to forget that my parents are adjusting every day to assisted living, when I can pretend it’s not as hard as it is. Hard for me. Hard for my folks. Hard for my brothers. Just plain hard. We are all in foreign territory and manage as best we can through this tenuous time.

Last night my brothers and I did not see eye-to-eye on a few need-to-thrash-out points. And sleep never came. At 5:30 I decided it was time to “wake up.” I took a bath, washed my hair, brushed my teeth and greeted the day – with aches and pains and grumpiness. But, to quote my dad, I kept “plugging away,” through a zombie-like breakfast, the morning’s work and a York Peppermint Patty pick-me-up. Returning home I spied something yellow – something yellow in buckets by my steps. Dug-up yellow roadside spill! Someone did it! Took the hint! Oh happy day!

I planted my bunches and wanted more, so me and my shovel walked to the road, and out from the ditch pops a wild mama duck, squawking, running, half-flying, scooting willy-nilly over the grass. And then I see them: eight baby duckies! Oh what a reward for a crummy, sleepless night! Such adorable little quackers. And all of a sudden from the corner of my eye a ninth ducky made a beeline for the road. What a little dope. Wrong way little one. Come back. And she zoomed across the road. I ran her down like a lunatic, but her big family was long gone hiding under the trees, so I took her inside and showed her to my family before depositing her safe and sound under the trees.

What unexpected bliss for a catatonic mama awake for 39 1/2 hours straight! Tonight instead of counting sheep, I’ll try counting duckies. Duck, duck, duck…zzzzzzzzzzz.



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Never-ending worries associated with the raising of four sons ages 19-24.

Dissembling a house I called home for much of my young adulthood.

Realizing that if want something done, I simply must do it myself.

Understanding what I am supposed to do, but ever resisting it.

Discouraged there’s never enough time to dent my to-do list.

Questioning where I will be 10, 20 or 30 years from now.

Lying awake most nights waiting for sleep to descend.

Preferring night’s dreams over tomorrow’s realities.

Feeling as if no one ever really hears me anymore.

Wondering at what point I’ll simply stop trying.

And then God shows up.

In the sunshiney smiles radiating from my parents’ careworn faces.

In my realization that God entrusted me with the gift of children.

In rediscovering treasures steeped with my youthful memories.

In gratitude that I am physically able to do what I need to do.

In encouraging words of support, strength and confidence.

In showing me that what’s most important will be done.

In knowing that wherever I shall go, God will also be.

In soul-refreshing rest even when sleep is stingy.

In hidden messages in the movies of my mind.

In special touches that shout God hears me.

In eyes that push me ever onward to God.

And I calm down.



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

Picture this: My brothers and I sitting in a room filled with people who haven’t been carded in 60 years. It’s Happy Birthday Sing-a-long Time. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” Afterward, a lady who’d been forgotten in the festivities brings the slight to someone’s attention, and so, we all have to sing the whole song once more. As the master of ceremonies announces that the birthday girl is 91 years old, my 91-year-old mother says, under her breath, “Big deal.”

During same said program the mayor of the fair city joins our table. Good public relations, no doubt. Nice lady. As she begins to take her chair next to my brother he notices a notebook on her seat. Reaching to remove the notebook my brother is not quick enough: She sits on his hand! To say that I think I will die of gut-splitting laughter is quite the understatement. I valiantly try to retain a modicum of decorum, but I fail as the memory continues to tickle my funny bone.

And it doesn’t help matters when other little funnies crop up. Every few songs the singer announces the titles of the upcoming play list. “And this next song is ‘Brown Coffin.’” Hmm…perhaps not the most elderly-correct song to be sung at a nursing home?

All in all, the program was quite pleasant, but a tad long. Wheeling my parents back to their rooms one brother quizzes us, “You know which song was my favorite?” Without missing a beat my other brother and I chime in, “The last one!” My parents didn’t raise dummies. Smart you-know-whats, but no dummies!

One day my curious Catholic dad questions his satin-black-Yamaka-wearing nursing aide who is obviously an Orthodox Jew, “Are you a Mennonite?” Where did that come from? Happily I did not witness this, but after hearing of the exchange and the curt answer given, I make a point of being as nice as possible to the man whenever I see him. I thought it was supposed to be kids who say the darnedest things.

Wednesday has become the day I whisk my mom away to a nearby restaurant for lunch. One such day when I arrive, an aide is choosing another blouse in which to change my mom because the top button is missing on the blouse my mom is wearing. My mom says, “It’s not that bad, is it? I want to be risqué.” Oh my, is this me in 40 years? OK, Mom, you be risqué. Show off that racy white cotton bra to all lookers. And as my mom steps out of my Jeep in the restaurant parking lot, I notice she has on her pink slippers too. What a wild woman!

Two months ago how did I amuse myself?



Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

God knows my heart. He knows I can’t say no to the responsibility. Everybody tells me to visit less frequently. My husband, my friends, even the facility staff wonders why I feel the need to stop by nearly every day. But none of them knows what my parents have done for me my entire life. My parents have given me unconditional love since the second I was born, sacrificing, working hard, to form the kind of environment where love flourishes in abundance.

And now, there they are in a new, confusing environment. No matter how attractive I try to make their surroundings, when they wake up each day they’re not waking up at “the farm,” the home they’ve loved for 38 years – the home they found one day in 1972. I was in the eighth grade and I hated the place! I didn’t want to leave the only home I’d ever known. I had no vision; my parents had immense foresight and the energy to make their dream a reality. Remodeling took one solid year, but once it was complete and we moved in, it was positively a lovely place to live. The farm was home.

As much as I know my parents are where they need to be, they are not “home.” In times to come, perhaps they will begin to feel at home in their two connected rooms, but until then they need family around them whenever possible. If they are no longer able to see well-loved treasures, they need to see well-loved faces. And so, they will see mine as often as possible no matter what. My purpose is clear.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

9:00-11:00 p.m. – Center stage spotlight on me for two solid hours discussing assisted living insurance options for my elderly parents. Therapies, medications, end dates of care. Two months ago happily oblivious; nowadays inundated.

11:00-Midnight – Plodding stage left to craft an e-mail and deliver voicemails requesting an immediate meeting with facility staff as the insurance company chose their bottom line over my father’s best interests and recommendations of his therapists. Now there’s a shock! Instead of receiving two more weeks of therapy, my dad has 24 hours to either say bye-bye or private pay his way from here on out.

Somewhere between Midnight and 1:00 a.m. – Stage right to bedroom, finally falling asleep.

1:00 a.m. – “Mom, I’m sick.” Supporting cast joins the fun.

1:00-5:00 a.m.  – Upstage, downstage and in the wings. Prop list: Scrubbing Bubbles, Lysol, ice chips, Jell-o, thermometer, washcloths. Sporadic couch stints in the stifling heat.

5:00-7:00 a.m. – Back to stage right and sleep…for two whole hours!

7:00-7:15 a.m. – R-r-r-i-i-n-g. R-r-r-i-i-n-g. Couldn’t quite master sitting erect, so lengthy explanation croaked to supporting brother in groggy tones, while still lying in bed.

7:15-10:30 a.m. – Somehow I convinced myself to face the day – face the day’s audience, cast and crew. Sickee check, spraying Lysol ahead of my every move. With such little sleep and low resistance any microscopic germ shall surely wipe me out. Face, hair, make-up, clothes, breakfast, Gatorade run, and I’m good to go. Ready to die, but good to go.

10:30-11:00 a.m. – On location driving in my A/C-less Jeep, sticky with sweat.

11:00-12 noon – Shell-shocked into reality, naïve sister and brother duo overcome previous miscommunications/misapprehensions attempting to forge the best plan for our father amid the startling facts. And sometime during this hour my brain simply turned to mush. “Yes. No. Why? Really? OK. Oh. Yeah. I guess. ‘kay. Mmm…hmm…Wasn’t I supposed to understand by now?…Anywhere but here…Calgon, where are you?I neeeeed you!

Noon-1:00 p.m. – Plastered phony face to greet the male and female leads of this little comedy of errors, my parents. “How are you feeling today? Oh yeah, I’m fine. Blah, blah, blah.”

1:00-1:30 – Driving home, stuck to the leather seats gulping for a breath of cool air.

1:30 – Sickee sleeping peacefully. House looks just as I left it. And that’s not a good thing. Apparently the detailed chore list I left on the table was just something I composed to amuse myself in my spare time last night. I didn’t really mean for anyone to lift a finger! Silly, silly me.

And so it goes. Not “The End.” Not by a long shot. The curtain will rise once more tomorrow. I sit back, sneak a look to be sure no ushers are watching, and put my feet up on the chair in front of me because right now I’m passively part of the audience. I’ve made it through another page in my script of life.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher

And BOOM…five children in six years, the death of one, and life with four remaining boys followed.

I was never a casual mom. I took the responsibility quite seriously. My boys were my world. And they knew it; they felt it. They were my gift from God, and I treated them accordingly, perhaps because I knew they were only on loan – mine for a short while. God could reclaim what was His; He’d done it once.

We five were like one entity for many years. My husband orbited at work providing the necessities of life, but my boys were mine. A great pleasure and an awesome responsibility. I never asked why God took one child back so soon; I never quite understood what I’d ever done to deserve the other four.

Looking into my boys’ eyes I saw love and trust shining back at me. My sons knew that they could count on me no matter what throughout all phases of their lives. They shared their joy, and came to me in times of trouble. And I thought that was about the best feeling in the world. Until today.

This afternoon one of my brothers and I attended a family meeting to chart the progress which my dad has made since entering rehabilitation after a debilitating fall. My dad is a week shy of 90 years old, and very “with it,” so he, too, attended the meeting. All therapists praised his efforts and detailed his on-going goals to regain the life he had pre-fall. Back and forth we listened and talked for nearly an hour. The goal uppermost in my dad’s mind is to join my mom, his wife of 69 years, in assisted living. This is why he works so hard at therapy. Toward the end of our discussion the therapists asked my dad what he thought would be best. Without hesitation, in a strong clear voice Pop said, “I trust my son and daughter completely to decide what is best for me.”

A definite Kodak moment.

My mind has not completely wrapped itself around the immensity of trust proclaimed in that one short sentence. It’s one thing when day-by-day we gain the trust of our own children. They’re little. Babies are born as trusting beings counting on their parents to care for them. So if we moms do it right, we do gain our children’s trust. But to have the man who gave life to his children put his life back into his children’s hands is the greatest gift he could ever give us. As with my boys, I can’t seem to figure out what I ever did to deserve such a father. Pop is my gift from God, and I will treat him accordingly because I know he is on loan – mine for a short while.

Copyright 2010 Maureen Locher