Chewing Gum: A Family Story

This story is one we've told over and over, the kind of family story that becomes legend, at least within the family ranks.

The photo above is Jon's first grade picture, but the story below actually happened when he was almost five years old and we lived in Ravenswood. I can't find any of my pictures from the time we lived in Ravenswood; we probably took very few. We lived in a townhouse apartment while we were building our house, and I have no photos of the house-building either. Back then, photography was fairly expensive and few people took a lot of photos. I wish I had them now, of course. Still, the photo of Jon tells you much about his adventurous, happy nature, and his daredevil ways. He was that way from the time he was born and I don't think he changed much during his life. To Jon, there was nothing he could not do--instead of saying "I can't," Jon saw challenges as "How can I?"

From the time he was a baby Jon was one busy little person. He would go like a fast train until he was ready to sleep; then he would simply drop wherever he was and go to sleep. Jon never wanted to miss anything and sleep interfered. He played hard, ate fast, and slept hard.

He was a ringleader in the apartments where we lived from 1974 until 1976. My sons were not used to having other kids to play with or neighborhood rules in our old home outside Manassas (called oddly enough, Ravenswood, the same name as the little West Virginia town we moved to). The boys didn't realize, for example, that they could not just walk into any house. Our first week in the apartment complex was a busy one for me as I retrieved my two oldest sons from whatever place they had managed to get into. Fortunately, the two younger sons were still too young to toddle around the neighborhood.

The morning after we moved in a man knocked on our door.

"Ma'am, do you have two little boys?" I admitted that I actually had four little boys.

"Well," he said, "Two of your boys just ran in my front door, out the back, and climbed over my fence. I was so surprised I nearly dropped my coffee."

A conversation with the boys followed as soon as I could catch them, and I explained why we could not just take a shortcut through other houses. They didn't get it but promised not to go in any house but our own again. Part of the problem, I discovered, was that they weren't really sure which house was ours, since all the apartments looked alike. I put a plant on the porch so they would have a landmark.

As far as I know they didn't run through any more houses. Instead they found that it was a lot more fun to use the privacy fences as an obstacle course, climbing up and over, running to the next fence, and up-and-over again. That brought the complex manager to my door, and he wasn't happy. Another conversation with the boys. More puzzlement but agreeable consent was obtained to not climb the fences anymore.

The kids in our neighborhood really had free rein when it came to playing. There were many apartments off of several cul-de-sacs and little traffic. I would go out every few minutes to check on my sons, and other mothers did the same so there was usually an adult on the lookout and ready to alert the rest of us if there was a problem.

I think I might have mentioned in another post that Jon did everything early, from walking to climbing to running, even to riding bikes. At four he could ride my 26" woman's bike. He could not sit on the seat, of course--he simply took the bike to a porch, got his feet on the pedals and off he went, straddling the middle of the bike. I remember once when the kids came running to get me because Jon had got the bike going fast enough that he could hold the handlebars and put his feet up on the seat. It was enough to make a lesser woman call for smelling salts. He had no fear. He got off by simply jumping off the bike, leaving it to crash and burn wherever it landed. It was not good for my bike.

About three blocks up the street behind our apartment there was a grocery store called Cope's Market. I sometimes walked there with the boys, pulling them in the wagon or pushing the little ones in the stroller. I didn't drive back then, but it was an easy, level walk to the store.

One day I went out to check on my two oldest sons and found Jon surrounded by a laughing, excited group of children. This wasn't unusual; he was usually in the center of any activity. I went back to my housework. A little later I looked out again and the kids were gone, but when I went out to look for them I found the same happy group were congregated again in a different place.

The third time I saw the group I noticed there were some older boys mixed in with the little ones. I had learned enough in our time at the apartments to know this wasn't good so I strolled over to see what was going on.

No wonder Jon was so popular! He had gum! Lots of it! I was dumbfounded.

"Jon!" I called. The kids looked around and dispersed like flies from a jar of jam. Jon stood still, his hands full of gum, orange juice trickling from the corners of his full mouth.

"Where did you get the gum?" I asked. Jon said nothing. He couldn't--his mouth was stuffed with Sour Orange Striped gum. I looked around and saw one of the older boys hanging around, watching me. "Where did he get the gum?" I repeated. The boy looked at Jon, and then blurted, "HE stole it!"

"Stole it? What do you mean?"

"He went to the store and he stole it! I saw him! He put it in his socks and in his pockets!" The boy ran off as he shouted these words over his shoulder.

"Jon? Is that true?"

"He told me to!" Jon shouted, spewing gum and juice in all directions. Then be burst out crying.

The story finally came out in bits and pieces as I rounded up kids and questioned them like a police sergeant. Apparently Jon rode my big bike to the store with some older boys. They told him he could have all the gum he wanted, all he had to do was take it, and then give some to them. Jon, being country-raised and with not much knowledge of how stores worked, thought it was a wonderful idea.

He proved to be an accomplished thief. No one in the store noticed the little guy in his Hee-Haw overalls running in and stuffing his pockets with gum and then running out. Apparently the boys made three trips and each time Jon came out loaded with gum. Not being the selfish type, he shared his booty with all the kids in the neighborhood. Everyone was chomping on the gum of their choice that afternoon.

When I finally stopped the fun, Jon still had about fifteen packs of gum in his pockets. There was only one thing I could do.

"We have to take this gum back, and we have to pay for what you took," I told Jon.

"N-o-o-o-o-o!" he wailed. "It's mine! The store people gave it to me!"

How do you explain to a four-year-old that taking gum from a store rack, where it is simply sitting there waiting for you to help yourself, is wrong? Jon could not believe his ears.

I waited until his Dad came home and then we drove to the store. His father took Jon inside to return the gum and pay for as much as we could figure he'd taken. The people at Cope's Market were surprisingly nice about it. I was mortified. Jon was too--he'd lost all his gum and his popularity in one short moment.

That afternoon I learned that it is possible to ride a bike three blocks and steal a prodigious amount of gum in less that ten minutes. Jon learned that sometimes big kids don't tell the truth. And that popularity can last less time than the flavor in a five-stick pack of gum.

Early Years

While looking through old photos this weekend I came on this one.

The photo was taken in our first house which was about five miles out in the country outside Manassas, Virginia (well, it was country then; it's all built up now).

The house was built by a man named Ellis Crouch. Mr. Crouch worked for the CCC during the Depression and when he returned home, he built this log house for his bride. In his time it was a simple log cabin with a fireplace and wood cookstove for heat. When we bought it some 30 years later it had been remodeled by various owners who stuccoed over the logs on the outside and tacked sheetrock over the interior logs. We stripped the sheetrock off the logs and painted them, replaced the steel stair rail with a wooden one, and made several other cosmetic changes. It was a small house but for a starter home (and for $17,000 with an acre of land) it was perfect.

I got married when I was 17, and had my first son before I was 18. We moved into our little house soon after and within a year our oldest son George was joined by Jon. The two were immediate friends. When Jon was only six months old, George was down on the floor with him, showing Jon how to push little cars and make that vrooom sound--and Jon did both like an old hand.

Jon did many things early--first tooth at 4 months, first bottle of cold cow's milk at 4 and a half months, courtesy of my mother who thought he was older."Well dear, he's nine months, isn't he? Certainly old enough for regular milk now." Sorry, Mom. He was still on breast milk at the time but the sudden introduction to a bottle of ice-cold milk didn't bother him at all.

At eleven months he was almost walking. That was when he climbed up the steps of the sliding board and before I could reach him he was swinging, monkey-style, on the swingset crossbar. I nearly fainted from fright, but Jon was laughing and happy as could be.

About six months later I walked into the kitchen to find Jon on top of the refrigerator with his hand in the cookie jar I had stashed up there because he was able to climb onto any other surface in the kitchen. I learned that day that he could also scale the log walls to get to the cookie jar.

These two little boys were always busy and almost always outside. They played cars, dug in the dirt, played with our dog, talked to the neighbors whenever possible and were never apart. George loved to put Jon up to things, and Jon always did as his big brother told him. For example, one day George told Jon to pee in an electrical outlet upstairs.

Jon complied.

Now you know this is not a good idea. Why Jon didn't get the shock of his life I will never know. What did happen was that the outlet shorted out and the house was filled with an acrid burning smell. I was about eight and a half months pregnant with son number four at the time, and had been out hanging laundry. When I came in and smelled that odor, I knew something electrical was burning.

What to do? Call 911, of course.

Which I did. I explained the smell to the man on the line, and also that I'd removed the four fuses (the whole house ran on 4 fuses, imagine!). He promised to send someone out to check on it.

While we waited for "someone to come and check on it" I grilled the boys.

"What did you do?"

Finally they confessed--just as we heard the first sirens wailing on the road to our house.

"They're going to take us to jail!" Jon cried and the two of them ran for cover, all the way to the back of the yard where they hid behind some trees as four fire trucks, an ambulance and a police car roared into our driveway.

The boys were terrified. So was I. How was I to explain to all these men what had actually happened? I was a shy 22-year-old and there was no way I could tell them the boys had peed in the outlet.

I picked up Derek, who was about 18 months, and headed out to meet our visitors.

"Uh, my little boys poured some water into the outlet," I stammered, shifting Derek on my hip.

The fireman grinned. "Oh yeah? Water, huh? Hey guys," he yelled, "she says her little boys poured water into an outlet!"

Five grinning firemen marched into my house. They returned a short time later, reporting the all clear. Nothing was hurt, apparently, except the outlet.

My boys did not return from their hiding place until every police car, fire truck and ambulance was out of sight. They were mortified that they had missed the excitement while at the same time relieved that they had not had to go to jail after all.

And Aaron, son number four, arrived just a few days later. Think the excitement might have hurried him along? I think that he heard those sirens and was in a hurry not to miss anything myself.

One Month Later

It was one month to the day that we lost Jon. Many of you have been on this journey with me, following what I write and sharing your thoughts and feelings. You have been my ear many times, and often my good counselors as well. Thank you all for being here, listening and understanding.

While it's been a terrible month, it's also been a month for remembering and rejoicing in Jon's well-lived life. A huge hole has been rent in the fabric of our family; it cannot be repaired but perhaps we can embroider it with memories of shared good times so that it becomes a thing of beauty rather than a scar on our family's history. I am hopeful that this is something we can do; I prefer to hold my son in my heart, surrounded by the light of joy. He was not a perfect man; none of us are. But he was a loving man who cared deeply for his family and friends, made mistakes but made amends as best he could, and looked ahead with hope and excitement. That is how we will remember him.

I will be posting some photos of Jon now and then. I am not posting them in grief and tears, but rather in joy of my beautiful son, and will include the stories that go with the photos--for there is always a story to accompany a photo, isn't there? Here are two of my favorites:


This was taken the day Jon brought his first daughter home from the hospital in July 1989, when he was 19 years old. I was a young granny, wasn't I? He was so excited--at the time, he was stationed in Kansas and his wife had stayed at home with her mother until Jordan was born. Jon drove like a wild man when Jeanie called to say she was in labor because he was determined to get to Ripley in time for Jordan's birth. He arrived just an hour before the delivery.


This was Jon's first attempt to grow a mustache. I never told him how funny I thought it looked because he was so proud of it! He had taken me to a mall to have my hair permed (I was experimenting with spiral perms back then) this day and he was so proud that he was able to do this for me. He thought I worked too hard and seldom got "girlie" things; he wanted to give me this for Christmas. It came out very well, and I kept perms in my hair for a few years after that. At this time, I was still in college and I don't think we had finished installing electricity in our house yet, so going to the mall and beauty parlor was a real luxury for me. I remember that Kansas wind that never quit too, and understood who most women in the area had short hair!


The photo was taken at his home in Wakefield, Kansas. He was stationed at Fort Riley, KS as a radio operator, and had bought a tiny, 1920's era house in the small town of Wakefield. The entire town had been relocated by the Corps of Engineers when the Republican River was dammed to create a large lake on the former site of the town. His house was very much original in its wood trim and other decor, and he only paid $16,000 for it, which was not a bad deal. Wakefield had no stop signs, only yield signs throughout the town. Jon was just 20 years old at this time.

I only visited there once since it was a 14-hour drive and Jon was deployed to Korea that spring (1990). Jean's mother rode with me on the trip and I will never forget driving through St. Louis with her. I handed her the map so she could tell me what exits to take and found that she'd never learned to read a map! This trip was the furthest from home she'd ever been, and she had never had need of a map. I managed to get off the road long enough to figure out where I needed to go.

Jon had a neighbor named Bessie who was in her 80's. She doted on his family, and he laughed because Bessie often went to the nursing home to visit friends she called the "old people" there. She never saw herself as elderly and kept a garden and her house spic and span. When there were tornado warnings, they would all go down into Bessie's storm cellar to ride it out. When I visited there, Jon took me to a nearby town called Clay Center--even though it was 20 miles away I could see the town clearly, a strange thing for an Easterner like me. A month or two after I'd been there, almost the entire town of Clay Center was destroyed in a tornado while Jon, Jeanie and Jordan sheltered in Bessie's cellar.

A picture may say a thousand words, but there is always the rest of the story that a photo doesn't tell, isn't there? Those are the stories I'll be telling as I post photos of my son Jonathan.

Anniversary: 5 Years

The years have past but the memory does not grow dim. Thinking today of my son who left us on this day in 2010. Here is the eulogy I wrote then:

Jon's Eulogy

(I did not have this written out when I spoke at the funeral—I wrote only the to-do list and the last paragraph on a piece of paper, and spoke from that. It was all I needed since I knew the rest by heart. I have tried to recall exactly what I said, and I believe I have captured most of it. Several people have asked for it because they were unable to be at the funeral.)

Eulogy for Jonathan Scott Ford
February 10, 2010

Jon’s To-Do List:

1. get born
2. learn to drive
3. work hard
4. go in the Army
5. get married and have a family
6. retire
7. go to college
8. play hard
9. become a business owner

10. become a grandfather

This is Jonathan’s to-do list, and I believe he was born with this list clutched in his hand. Number one on the list was to get born. He was in such a hurry to get started that he was born 3 weeks early after 4 hours of labor, and came out squalling so loud that the doctor said, “No need to smack this one on the behind. He’s breathing just fine!”

I think Jon was born knowing how to drive. We never taught him; he just got on or in anything that would move and started driving. At first it was toy cars and trucks, then a horse which he traded for a motorcycle as soon as he could, then the motorcycle for his first car. He loved to be behind the wheel and on the road, on the move.

Jon didn’t do so well in school, graduating near the bottom of his class because he was too busy following rule number three-work hard. He struggled with authority figures and that got him kicked out of school more than he was in class in his senior year, I believe, but that didn’t bother Jon at all—he used the time out of school to work at three part-time jobs at the same time. Nothing slowed him down.

At sixteen he enlisted in the Army because he believed it was both an honor and a duty to serve his country. Realizing what he had missed in school, he took classes in the Army to learn what he needed to know to get ahead. He married his high school sweetheart before leaving for basic training, and from that marriage came his beautiful daughter Jordan. He had to go to Korea to meet the love of his life, his Jennifer, and from this second marriage came three more lovely granddaughters, Kate, Cassidy and Allison. We are so blessed to have them and Jennifer as part of our family. You were the light of his life.

Jon was not content to be an average soldier—he strove to be the best, winning Soldier of the Quarter several times and selected to join the White House Communications Agency, where he traveled with the President, Vice-President and other dignitaries during his four years in the agency.

He even managed to retire before he was 30—he received a medical retirement from the Army, and looked around for his next adventure. He got into cell phones at a time when the industry was just taking off and became part of research and development, again traveling often to Europe and other locations as part of his job. While working full-time for Nextel he earned his Bachelor’s degree, and later his Master’s in Business Administration, actually starting on his Master’s degree before he had quite completed the Bachelor’s program. With the MBA under his belt, he looked for his next adventure, and found it with my brother’s company, Connelly & Associates.

Jon loved working at Connelly. He got up early every day, eager to go to work. He loved the challenge of the jobs, the possibilities and the people he worked with. He could not wait to see what they might get into next, what direction the company might take.

Jon also believed in playing hard. He ran a marathon just to be able to say he did it; he owned and drove a racing motorcycle, learned to ski, scuba dive, whitewater raft, kayak, and he loved the game of golf. He and his brothers hunted together, golfed together, and plain enjoyed just being together.

And even though he left us at 39 years old, Jon completed the last thing on his to-do list—he became a grandfather last year when his granddaughterCadyn was born. What a life.

Right now, we’re struggling to get though this day and this sorrow. But all of you who knew Jon know that he would not want us to wallow in grief and sadness. He would expect us to pick up the pieces and go on with our lives, living as he lived his—full of energy and enthusiasm.

What will define Jon’s life is how we go on: not look back with regret, but with love and gratitude that we had this amazing person in our lives. If you would honor the life of my son Jonathan Scott Ford, you will go forward as he would have you do—with enthusiasm, hope, and passion. That is what Jonathan would want us to do.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Jon and the Horse

Jon always loved horses. From the time he was a little boy, he wanted a horse of his own. Eventually he did own a pony and then a rangy mare named Sonzy; he eventually traded her for the next love of his life, a motorcycle.

Horses, however, were far from our minds or budget when we first moved here. We had land to clear, a house to build, fences to fix, and an encyclopedia of country wisdom to learn. Those early years we were busy and broke, and by the beginning of our third year on our land we were still not thinking about horses. Besides, we agreed, the boys were too young to care for a horse anyway.

But a horse came to us. It was September, late in the month when the air is nipped with frost and the kids go to school while it is still daylight. The boys were walking up the hill to the road, the beginning of their twice-a-day mile hike to the bus and back. George and Jon were much surprised to find a horse blocking their way.

"Mom, there's a horse out here!" Sure enough there was, a young horse that looked right feisty.
I walked outside and yelled at the horse and it took off. The boys continued their walk; I didn't see the horse again until later that afternoon. As the boys came down the hill to the house the horse raced up to greet them--but he reared up on his hinds legs and it didn't look too welcoming to me. Jon was entranced. I was terrified.

"Mom, can we keep him?"

"Absolutely not! He belongs to someone and he needs to leave!" I tossed a few small stones at the horse and he thundered away with great mane-tossing and neighing in indignation. I was glad to see the back end of him, I can tell you. The image of this big horse rearing over my little boys didn't set well with me.

We had no idea who the horse belonged to, and no telephone to call anyone to find out. One thing I knew for sure--this was a stallion. That fact was abundantly clear when he reared up! And he wasn't too friendly either. I hoped we'd seen the last of him.

But the next morning, there he was again. The boys were walking up the driveway and the horse galloped up to them. I think now he really wanted to be friendly, and wanted food. Jon stopped to pet the horse, and the animal made a grab for Jon's brown paper lunch bag.

"Oh no, you're not stealing my lunch!" Jon snatched his lunch bag back quickly and hid it behind his back. The horse apparently didn't like taking no for an answer and tried to nip Jon on the shoulder, then reared up again.

Jon quickly raised his lunch bag over his head and yelled up at the towering horse, "Horse, if you don't quit bothering us, I'll hit you with my lunch!" It was a classic David and Goliath moment, and just like the good story, David won. The horse settled back down and followed the boys peacefully up the road.

Later that day a man came looking for his stud horse. We were never visited by the wild thing again, and I was fairly grateful for that. I was still too new to the country to know how to handle the horse, and honestly even to this day I don't think I'd do very well with it.

But for Jon it was simple. It was a horse and he spoke directly to it, completely unintimidated and fearless. It was how he took on all challenges in his life. He never thought, "I can't do that," but rather, "How can I do that?"

As for me, I never worried about his ability to handle a horse or pony of his own again. That year for his birthday, he brought home his pony.

Jon's Eulogy

(I did not have this written out when I spoke at the funeral—I wrote only the to-do list and the last paragraph on a piece of paper, and spoke from that. It was all I needed since I knew the rest by heart.

I have tried to recall exactly what I said, and I believe I have captured most of it. Several people have asked for it because they were unable to be at the funeral.)

Eulogy for Jonathan Scott Ford
February 10, 2010

Jon’s To-Do List:

1. get born
2. learn to drive
3. work hard
4. go in the Army
5. get married and have a family
6. retire
7. go to college
8. play hard
9. become a business owner

10. become a grandfather

This is Jonathan’s to-do list, and I believe he was born with this list clutched in his hand. Number one on the list was to get born. He was in such a hurry to get started that he was born 3 weeks early after 4 hours of labor, and came out squalling so loud that the doctor said, “No need to smack this one on the behind. He’s breathing just fine!”

I think Jon was born knowing how to drive. We never taught him; he just got on or in anything that would move and started driving. At first it was toy cars and trucks, then a horse which he traded for a motorcycle as soon as he could, then the motorcycle for his first car. He loved to be behind the wheel and on the road, on the move.

Jon didn’t do so well in school, graduating near the bottom of his class because he was too busy following rule number three-work hard. He struggled with authority figures and that got him kicked out of school more than he was in class in his senior year, I believe, but that didn’t bother Jon at all—he used the time out of school to work at three part-time jobs at the same time. Nothing slowed him down.

At sixteen he enlisted in the Army because he believed it was both an honor and a duty to serve his country. Realizing what he had missed in school, he took classes in the Army to learn what he needed to know to get ahead. He married his high school sweetheart before leaving for basic training, and from that marriage came his beautiful daughter Jordan. He had to go to Korea to meet the love of his life, his Jennifer, and from this second marriage came three more lovely granddaughters, Kate, Cassidy and Allison. We are so blessed to have them and Jennifer as part of our family. You were the light of his life.

Jon was not content to be an average soldier—he strove to be the best, winning Soldier of the Quarter several times and selected to join the White House Communications Agency, where he traveled with the President, Vice-President and other dignitaries during his four years in the agency.

He even managed to retire before he was 30—he received a medical retirement from the Army, and looked around for his next adventure. He got into cell phones at a time when the industry was just taking off and became part of research and development, again traveling often to Europe and other locations as part of his job. While working full-time for Nextel he earned his Bachelor’s degree, and later his Master’s in Business Administration, actually starting on his Master’s degree before he had quite completed the Bachelor’s program. With the MBA under his belt, he looked for his next adventure, and found it with my brother’s company, Connelly & Associates.

Jon loved working at Connelly. He got up early every day, eager to go to work. He loved the challenge of the jobs, the possibilities and the people he worked with. He could not wait to see what they might get into next, what direction the company might take.

Jon also believed in playing hard. He ran a marathon just to be able to say he did it; he owned and drove a racing motorcycle, learned to ski, scuba dive, whitewater raft, kayak, and he loved the game of golf. He and his brothers hunted together, golfed together, and plain enjoyed just being together.

And even though he left us at 39 years old, Jon completed the last thing on his to-do list—he became a grandfather last year when his granddaughter Cadyn was born. What a life.

Right now, we’re struggling to get though this day and this sorrow. But all of you who knew Jon know that he would not want us to wallow in grief and sadness. He would expect us to pick up the pieces and go on with our lives, living as he lived his—full of energy and enthusiasm.

What will define Jon’s life is how we go on: not look back with regret, but with love and gratitude that we had this amazing person in our lives. If you would honor the life of my son Jonathan Scott Ford, you will go forward as he would have you do—with enthusiasm, hope, and passion. That is what Jonathan would want us to do.

Goldberry

She was his first love. Short and shaggy and four-legged and full of attitude.

Jon wanted a horse practically since he could walk. We bought a wild paint named Dusty who turned out to be only half-gelded--someone hadn't done the neutering job right and he was a right pistol to handle. Not good for a little boy. Not good for a grown woman either, I learned after he tossed me a couple of times. Dusty soon went to the horse sale, and good riddance.

Jon saved his money and we added enough to it to make $100. On his 8th birthday we went to the monthly horse sale at the livestock market to look for a pony. It didn't take long to find one. A man with a trailer full of ponies was outside in the parking lot, and he told Jon that for $70 he could have any one he wanted. Jon looked them all over, and picked Goldberry. With the extra money he got a saddle, bridle, saddle blanket and a curry comb. He was in business.

Goldberry came home and promptly got sick with shipping fever which we learned from the vet was actually pneumonia and not unusual for ponies that were shipped from sale to sale. The horse salesman said she was seven years old. In my years of horse and cattle deals I learned that no animal at a sale is older than seven. It's the magic number where they just quit aging. But I think in this case it was the truth. Goldberry survived shipping fever and turned out to be one good pony.

She loved kids and let any child ride her except Aaron (son #4). For some reason he irritated her and she even bit him once, on the chest. Poor boy, he got little sympathy because the other kids all sided with the pony! Goldberry hate adults who tried to ride her and threw every one who tried. Years later when we finally sold her, she threw the son-in-law of the buyer, breaking his arm. He got little sympathy from us--we told him she'd do it.

As a pony, she wasn't much to look at. She was brown and rough and only looked good immediately after Jon groomed her. She loved running in the brush and could be depended to bring the cows home at milking time because she liked to clean up their spilled sweet feed. While she wasn't a looker, she was a real worker. We'd hook up a cultivator to her to work the tobacco, sorghum or gardens and she went through the rows faster than a tiller could. We had to put a face mask of chicken wire on her because she liked to nip off the plants as she went through the fields. She only tried the tobacco once, though--it, apparently, was not to her taste.

Jon rode her until his feet touched the ground when he straddled her. He adored Goldberry and she returned his love. Later when Jon bought a bigger horse, Goldberry went to Derek, and when both boys left home for the military we finally sold her. The last we knew of her was about 10 years ago when she was owned by a blind girl in a neighboring county.

One of my best memories is Jon and George, our oldest son, riding across the ridge on Goldberry. Two small boys on a pony, silhouetted against the sky on a narrow ridgetop, talking as fast as they could go as the pony jogged along the dirt road. Now that is what childhood should be.

Scotland: Brothers Journey

Jon, golfing last year.

Two of my sons are on a golfing trip in Scotland. The story of this trip is perhaps one of the most touching, sad, and happy stories I can tell you.

Regular readers know that we lost our second son, Jonathan, in February. what you don't know is that his wife and my oldest son had been planning a golf trip to Scotland for the three brothers who golfed as a surprise for Jon's 40th birthday, which would have been this September 4.

The planning had been going on for about 2 years as details were worked out--which golf courses, reservations, flights, rentals, etc. It was to be the trip of a lifetime and would include playing a game at the famous St. Andrews course which I believe is the oldest known golf course in the world. The plan included stops at golf courses all around the Scottish coast.

All went well until the past January when Jon began planning to do something on the very days George and Jennifer had reserved for the trip. What to do? There was really only one thing they could: tell him about the trip.

The last time I spoke with Jon, he had called me in excitement.

"You'll never guess what Jennifer has done!" He said, and I let him tell me all about it. I'd known about the trip for some time, but I wanted to hear him tell me. He was amazed and humbled that his wife loved him so much that she would go to all the trouble to plan this trip--and that she had been working a lot of extra hours to pay for it so he would not see anything on bank statements or elsewhere that might give away the secret.

Jon talked happily for a long time that night, telling me about the trip, his delight that his brothers George and Derek would also be going, his pleasure in the recent accomplishments of his daughters, and his deep love for his wife. He was very,very happy, and totally contented with his life at the moment. We ended the conversation as we always did:

"Bye, Jonnie. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom. Bye."

Those were my last words to my son, and to this day I am grateful for the habit begun with my parents, to end calls to loved ones with those three simple words.

After Jon's death, the guys decided to call off the trip and take a refund on the tickets. But after a few weeks, they reconsidered. If Jon had been the one to survive, he certainly would have gone. What better way to honor their brother than to continue with their plan and celebrate his life and love of golf?

They are now working their way around the Scottish courses and sending brief messages via Facebook of their travels. George is trying to keep up a blog of their travels, although so far has hasn't been able to spot much except the first day of their trip. If you're interested you can follow along at http://www.wvhighlands.blogspot.com/

Sometimes Saying Yes is the Right Thing to Do

We're told so often to "Just Say No." And that saying yes too often can lead to overload, stress, anxiety and so on. And yet there are times when saying yes is the right thing to do.

It was something I wanted to do, and yet I knew it would not be easy.

I was invited to speak to my son Jon's class reunion about his life. Long-time readers here know we lost Jon three years ago in a traffic accident. Those who say grief gets better with time might be right, but what I have found is that it is always there, just under the surface and prone to reappearing in full force when some small thing triggers it--an offhand comment, a car like one he used to own, an expression on his granddaughter's face, or other seemingly harmless occurrences.

But when the invitation came to speak to his classmates I knew it was something I should do. Jon loved high school for probably all the wrong reasons--he liked being with his friends, cutting up, driving himself to school. He disliked it too--the authority of the administrators and teachers, the imposed discipline, the necessity to sit for long periods of time. Calls from the assistant principal were frequent, usually ending with a suspension of a day or more, which did not bother Jon at all. He just went to work at one of his many jobs; making money meant more to him then than an education. So those who knew him in school, but had not really seen him afterwards because he left this area immediately upon graduating, knew little of what he had become.

Jon was always a worker. As a little boy he couldn't wait to wash dishes, milk our cow or drive the tractor. He tired of these tasks pretty quickly, but he did them and did them well. He often held three jobs at a time while he was in high school, working at a restaurant, a tire shop, a car wash, and a movie theater, to name a few. From the time he could drive he was pretty much self-supporting. He felt like his own man, so having to obey the seemingly meaningless rules of school made him chafe at the bit. Graduation couldn't come soon enough for him--and he was already enlisted in the Army at 16, and ready to ship out immediately after graduating.

Once he was in the Army, his life continued to spiral upward. He gained promotions quickly and loved the military life because its discipline had meaning for him. He served in the White House Communications Agency and traveled often with the President and other heads of state, helping to set up secure communications networks. He married the love of his life too, who was also in the Army.

After a medical discharge from the Army (asthma and other health issues) he jumped into a new challenge, the new world of cell phones. He traveled extensively with this work, often overseas. Meantime he became the father of five lovely daughters and moved across country twice in a year. He also earned a college degree and a master's degree in business. His last major change was into a new field of work, geotech drilling, where he was the executive vp and part owner.

His hobbies were numerous too--from mountain biking to golf and skiiing, scuba diving to motorcycle racing, he tried anything that came his way. He was seldom still; if he was still he was probably asleep!

This part of Jon's life was unknown to those who remembered him in high school, and I knew that he would want them to know what he'd accomplished. I also wanted to share the legacy he left to all who knew him: to never give up, to take every challenge, to say how instead of why, and to live this life while it is ours to live.

A storyteller knows that the teller cannot break into tears; to do so makes the audience worry about the teller, and that is not good. I knew getting through my talk would be a challenge, but it was one I was willing to take. I thought about what to say, how to say it and how it make the occasion safe for all concerned, as well as inspirational and even with some humor here and there.

It worked. It was just as I had hoped. I think Jon would be pleased. I know I was glad to be there, seeing his classmates grown up and living good lives. Yes, it was good, and it is a memory I will cherish.

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

The Trouble with Saturdays

Here's what it is: every Saturday that I am not at work, storytelling or visiting family, we go to town in the mornings. It's a ritual for us, having breakfast, seeing friends, doing a little shopping and errands. Library, feedstore, bank, grocery store are the usual stops.

Now I feel like I'm running an obstacle course. Last Saturday my sisters were visiting and I felt protected by their presence. It was cold and snowy so there weren't many people out and I could go to my usual haunts without meeting anyone who wanted to tell me how sorry they were. This morning it was just Larry and me.

First stop was the tire shop. I've been running on threads and steel cords, the blessing bestowed by my long daily commute and storytelling trips. It was time for tires. The place I usually get them is the shop where Jon worked off and on when he was in high school. Sometimes when he was in the Army or working at Nextel and came home to visit he would still go in and work, just for the purely physical nature of it. He and the shop owner were longtime friends, closer to uncle/nephew than anything else. They argued, laughed and cussed each other, and Jon loved that man like family.

I thought I'd be okay, but at the first sight of Jon's old friend, I knew I was in trouble. I managed a hug but could not talk to him at all. Tears were too close to the surface for both of us. Painful does not begin to describe how it felt. We got the tires (no discount! Ha! There is friendship and there is business, a fact Jon and his friend both knew well, and somehow that was better for me. Business is business, no emotional involvement).

At the Downtowner, I struggled to get a grip, to quiet the sorrow raising its dark head once again. I thought this would be a good day but soon realized that I was too optimistic. A friend I had not seen since Jon's death stopped in for breakfast and although I was more prepared by then, it wasn't easy.

Then on to the bank where thank goodness I saw no one I knew, and to the library. More good friends I had not yet seen, more bracing myself to get through, just get through. Again
it was not bad, just difficult.

I am home now, trembling inside from the strength it took to face people and get done the things that needed to get done--the tasks that used to be such a pleasure and are now a marathon of fighting back tears and keeping my emotions in check. And people wondered why I did not go out for so long after I got home?

Re-reading what I've written, I realize that this sounds all about me. My friends are suffering too in sympathy and empathy. I do not want to make it harder for them by a) breaking down in their presence, or b) coming off as cold and uncaring. There is no middle line to walk here, no safe place where I can protect myself and appear cheerful and nonchalant. If there is, I have no idea how to find it.

At the same time, I cannot hibernate forever and I do not want to do that. Going to back to work on Wednesday was tough; my people in my department have been terrific--they know me well enough to let me be. Others have that I'm-so-sorry look so I avoid eye contact or speaking to them, and cut off any condolences abruptly by changing the subject to a work-related topic. It probably seems cold and perhaps even rude, but my personal sorrow is not for the workplace, if that makes sense. I appreciate their concern, but the best possible thing they can do for me is get back to business. Then I can put down my shield, take down the wall I have built to protect myself and return to something like a normal workday.

It's hard for me to see meaning in my days or the things I do. I often wonder what this life is about--are we here only to experience the pain of losing the ones we love, and then dying ourselves? Is that really all it is? (Please, no explanations about trusting in God--that's a given, but the questions remain.) Those who have traveled this path ahead of me assure me it gets better with time, and I have to trust that this is true.

As I told a friend this morning, I would gladly die a thousand times to give my son my remaining days. We aren't offered that choice so we struggle on, trying to understand and hold on to joy, to find meaning and reason in our lives. I look at the trees beginning to soften with warmer days and at the flowers breaking the soil in my gardens and I know that nature has a cycle of life, death and rebirth. As part of nature surely that cycle applies to us as well. Somewhere, in some form, Jon will live again. Here and now the business of daily living must go on, and business, as I said above, is business: a list of tasks to be accomplished, goals to be met. Perhaps it is the routine of business that gets us through.

In the meantime, a lifetime of Saturdays line up ahead of me, the end of them lost in the cloud of the future, and I must work my way through them, hoping that at some point joy will return to this business of living.

In Memoriam

Over the past few months my daughter-in-law and I discussed what to put on Jon's gravestone. It's not an easy decision or conversation. Going through the photos reminded us of so many good times, things Jon loved to do, and how much he loved spending time with his daughters.

After a lot of thought, his wife selected these images, which will be cast into a bronze plaque for his gravestone:

Top left, Jon holds his granddaughter;clockwise is Jon in the army in Korea as a radioman; then with his diploma for his Masters in Business Administration; then "sled dad" as he and he three youngest played in the snow; and then his favorite photo of him playing golf. Center is that beautiful smile we miss so much. In the background is our homeplace, which grounded Jon and was the place he came to relax and recharge. West Virginia was always in his heart, and he was proud to wear the WV logo on his clothes. His favorite suit and tie outfit was a dark suit with a blue shirt and deep gold tie--a mountaineer through and through.

These are some other photos we considered but in the end did not use. They show some of the range of his passions:

Skiing; a highlight for him was skiing in the Pyrenees with his friend Todd several years ago;

Water skiing in Kentucky, a sport he first tried on the Ohio River as a teenager;

Playing guitar was a short-lived interest--he loved it but soon found he didn't have what it took to be good, so he gave his Martin guitar to is daughter, who plays beautifully.

Scuba diving in the Caribbean on vacation--he was thrilled with it and wanted to learn all about it, even talking about becoming an instructor one day;

And of course, his racing motorcycle, which scared the wits out of me but which he loved and still owned. His love for bikes started in his teens and never waned, much to my dismay!

He was a man of many hobbies and interests, but his deepest passion was his love for his family. Other things came and went, but this one was the driving force of his life.

Missed every day, but loved even more.

One Week Ago

Since so many family and friends could not be there, I am sharing some pictures I took the day of Jon's funeral. It was also the day of the blizzard in Leesburg, VA, when visibility was often white-out conditions.

From the window in the morning. Snow continued to pelt down, and the wind created drifts and blinding sideways snow.

Downtown Leesburg, at 5 mph--the roads had not been cleared yet and driving was tricky.

Drift on drift, snow on snow

In the cemetery, the snow continued to fall like white rain.

Larry and I returned to the cemetery several days after Jon's funeral. This is a picture of the grave beside Jon's.

I looked up Jesse Jabez Stansbury online, and learned that he was married in Baltimore County Maryland in 1852, had a son (named Edwin) in Loudoun County, VA in 1853, was a jeweller and fought in the Civil War on the side of the Confederacy in the Virginia 17th Regiment Infantry.

The stone chapel in the cemetery is a peaceful place, and only a few feet from Jon.

A large sycamore hangs over Jon's grave, and in the far distance you can barely see a blue mountain, a reminder of the hills of home.

September 4, 2010

It was a beautiful day. Sunny, a good breeze, no humidity. A day ordered just for us, I think. We'd buried Jon in a blizzard and as we were planning for his birthday on the Labor Day weekend, Hurricane Earl was threatening out in the Atlantic. Just our luck, I thought, we'll have to do his military honors in a hurricane. But our luck, for this day, was good.

We met for breakfast at Jon's home and walked as a group to the cemetery, about 50 of us, I'd guess. I'm sure the neighbors along the way wondered what was up. One lady asked if we were a walking club. Sort of, we agreed. We were walking to be together.

At the cemetery the sign on the gate said "closed." You'll notice that we paid a lot of attention to that. It was a bit of a step for my short legs, but others had no problem at all crossing the chains.

My sister Liz, grandson James and I walked together through the cemetery.

Others waited for us under the spreading sycamore tree that shades Jon's grave. This is an old cemetery, and Jon's "next door" neighbor was a Confederate soldier. Brother-in-law Jay said the blessing, a perfect gift.

The two soldiers from Fort Dietrich who came to provide the ceremony for us were solemn and respectful.

Here they prepare to unfold the flag. I could not help but notice history colliding on this spot, as the black soldier stood at attention beside the grave of Jesse Jabez Stansbury, who served with honor in the Civil War. Time passes, and wounds heal.

The flag was held for a full minute over Jon's grave as each of us said our own silent prayer. Then it was re-folded and presented to his wife.

We sang "Happy Birthday" before we left. Why not? It was his birthday and all of us were there to celebrate his life and remember him. We left, not in sadness, but comforted by having been there together.

Sunlight brightened the flags and flowers as we left.

Sleep well, Son. You deserve the rest.

Jon's Fund and Thinking about the Future and the Past

You may have noticed the new Donate button on my sidebar.

A fund for Jon's family has been set up to help them through the coming years--college looms, and unfortunately his life insurance was in transition and will not be as much as it might have been in two weeks. There are many efforts afoot to assure that life can go on as normally as possible for his family, and this fund is one of them. It has been established by Connelly and Associates, where Jon was part owner and the job he loved passionately. I've posted the Donate button on this blog to make it easier for family and friends to find.

Being home is better than I thought it would be. Here I have things to do. My cat, always on the affectionate side, did not leave me all yesterday evening or all night. While we were away she apparently even made friends with the dogs, something I'd given up on.

There were cards and letters here too--piles of them waiting for us, from friends and family all over the US, Canada and England. I cannot tell you how much your words meant to me. While only a few of you have experienced the death of your child, many of you offered comfort simply by saying, "I'm here. I care." Thank you all more than you know. I will send out thank you notes soon but wanted to say it now because I am overwhelmed by your kindness.

Other things are slowly coming together. I called to see what it would take to establish a family burial plot on our land. While Jon is buried in Virginia near his daughters and wife, I want to be sure we have the option open to any family members who want to be buried here on the homeplace. I learned that there is no real regulation of family cemeteries--only assure that access is easy to prevent future problems, and add a note to my deed at the County Clerk's office as to the location and size of the plot set aside for the cemetery. How simple, and how right that a family should be able to make a place to hold their loved ones.

More snow is forecast for tonight and tomorrow--for now it has stopped and the sun is shining brightly. I am inside by the fireplace, thinking about my son and his life here as a boy growing to manhood. I realized yesterday that Jon is the first person I have known for the whole of their life, from birth to the end. It does not cause me sadness, although there is certainly pain that the end came so soon and unexpectedly. But his was a life lived to the fullest, filled with love and laughter, adventure and action, reflection and purpose. When my time is over, I hope the same will be true of my life.

The Race

This was the reason for what we did Saturday morning: about 20 family members gathered in Ripley, WV to participate in the Ripley Firecracker 2-Mile Run/Walk as part of the city's 4th of July celebration. Jon intended to be here this year to run with his brothers. So we decided that he'd be there in spirit. We used his motto on t-shirts:

The back of the shirts featured the photo that we're using as a bronze plaque on Jon's gravestone.

Family from four states came to be part of the event on Saturday. Nephew Chris, his wife Susan and their children Hope, Garrett, and Cade are from Texas; my sister Maggie and her husband Roger came from Maryland, Theresa and Jay came from Virginia, and there were a lot of us representing West Virginia--George from the eastern part of the state, Aaron and his wife Jaime from the northern area and the rest of us from right here in Jackson County.

Only Jordan and her husband Ethan and baby Cadyn somehow weren't there for the photo, but they had their t-shirts. Michaela and James got their shirts a little later.

From left, back row: Jaime, Roger, Jay, Aaron, Chris, Jared, George, Derek. Second row from left: Michaela, Larry, Maggie, Theresa, me, Haley, and Amy. Front row, from left: Garrett, Cade, Hope, James, Ben and Sam in the stroller.

Three of our sons ran in the race: George, Aaron and Derek. All did well. I think Derek and George might have placed in their age group, but there seemed to be a problem with the times and we still don't know for sure who finished where. (This was a problem at least once before so I hope the committee that plans the event makes sure it doesn't happen again. It's pretty dispiriting for the runners (who each paid $15 to participate) to find out in the end that the results were uncertain.)

Cousin Chris ran for the first time this year, coming all the way from Texas to do so. He loves to clown around, can you tell?

The Sistahs! Just before the race when we weren't all sweaty and hot. Me, Maggie and Theresa represented the over-50 generation, along with Larry and Maggie's husband Roger.

Grandson Jared was the first in the family to finish the race, and I believe he placed 2nd in his age group. Granddaughter Haley also placed 2nd in her age category but it looks like we missed getting a photo of her finishing the race.

Maggie and Roger were walkers, and finished about 2 minutes ahead of Larry and me--which is a good long time in the race. But hey, they're younger by about 5 years or so :-) They actually ran for some segments, and I have to admit we ran very little and did not attempt to hurry; our goal was to finish.

Larry and I were the VERY LAST people to cross the finish line and there is no photo of the glorious moment to share with you unfortunately. It was funny though--the guy leading us in on the bike got everyone clapping and cheering as we crossed, and the parade was right on our heels so my sister Maggie said we must have been the parade grand marshals! Too funny. I was laughing so hard I forgot how hot I was.

We had fun and walked a steady pace, and weren't sore the next day. The way I see it, someone has to be last. I would guess we were the only great-grandparents in the event, and the only people I saw anywhere near our age were the serious runners. Still, I'd like to be at least second to last next year! So it's time to start working toward that goal.

I loved having so many of us there, wearing our shirts and remembering Jon. We were asked about the shirts and what they represented and I was glad to tell people why we were wearing them. Jon's motto drove us to commit to being there, and to doing something besides mourning and crying. We were together and strong and that's what Jon would have loved. I'm pretty sure he would have liked those shirts too.

Day of Joy, Day of Remembrance

Each holiday brings its challenge. We got through Easter with little difficulty because there were few memories of Jon connected to that holiday for us. Mother's Day, however, loomed large and I wondered how the day might go.

Some of the apprehension disappeared when Jon's wife called to say she and the girls were coming up to spend the weekend with us. This was a real pleasure because we seldom saw Jon's family on Mother's Day; they usually came home on Memorial Day. Then our family reunions began to be held the third weekend of May so it was simpler to get together then. This year would be different, and I welcomed the prospect of having more family around for the holiday.

How did it go? Predictably, there were times that were difficult. Memories of times they'd spent as a family at our house flooded our minds. And yet it was also very good as we talked about our feelings and where we are at this point--our sadness, sense of loss, even anger, frustration, and on top of all that, happiness. Happiness at knowing our family is a good family, strong and supportive, people who can be depended on. Happiness at knowing that Jon is so deeply missed and his memory treasured, and at seeing his daughters working to find their feet and firmly continue on their way, strong on the foundation he built for them with his wife. One continues her volleyball success; another is exploring the world of music; the third is writing, the medium where she finds expression; and the fourth is establishing her own home and family as she looks ahead to completing her nursing degree.

For the adults the road seems to be a little rockier and treacherous. We find ourselves happy and laughing at one moment, in tears the next. We are learning to talk about how we feel even as the tears track steadily down our faces. No one comments on them or feels a need to wipe them away--they are a natural part of this conversation, and their absence might be more noticeable than their presence. This isn't to say the younger generation doesn't have the same level of grief--I know that they do; perhaps it is that we knew him and loved him longer, that our memories reach far back in our lives, that makes our grief more multi-faceted, reflecting joy and regret as well as sadness back at us as we remember his loved face.

Sometimes I find that I avoid saying something because to say it would bring down everyone else at a time when we're all happy and laughing. Sometimes I am appalled at my own choice of words--"that kills me," or "deader than a doughnut." References to death in any offhand remark strike harshly on my ears, even though I know these are commonplace slang expressions and most people don't even think when using them. I'm over-sensitive to songs with lyrics of lost love, to television or movie images of the dead. I cannot look at or hear such things casually any more. I know I am not alone in this; others in my family have mentioned the same sensitivity and the sideways onslaught of grief that can attack at unexpected moments, such as a song on the car radio or over the speakers in a store.

So how was my Mother's Day? After all of the above ruminations, you may be thinking, "Oh poor thing, she must have cried all day!" That is far from the truth. The weekend was one of the best I can remember in many ways, with our little great-granddaughter running round in my kitchen, good food being fixed, long conversations with granddaughters, my sons and my daughters-in-law, driving lessons on a big pickup truck and a standard shift car for a few teenagers (my new gravel now has proud spin-out marks from the take-offs in the standard!), time by the firepit, and a good Saturday morning breakfast at the Downtowner. There was a golf game for some of the adults, music on Saturday night, cake-making on Sunday, a trip to see Jordan's new decks and gravel (a universal expense in Jackson county at this time of year, I think), tomato plants taken to new homes and all of the normal, happy activities of a family get-together.

This milestone passed safely, not without a few tears but with a lot of hugs and laughter. Each time we get together, we heal more. New pain surfaces, but someone is always there to help us over the bad places. There is nothing as good for our souls as being together and remembering the many happy times we had with Jon and with each other in this motley, hardy crew we call family.