Posts filed under ‘Love’
June 3rd – delete- Chris Ritchey
Artwork Chris Ritchey
Hard weeks, when even writing is no longer cathartic. Always months of anniversaries of this and that…. May and June full of them. Some were happy but in the dying times most are met with “wanting to just get through” to the other side. The “what if” things had turned out differently , “memories that should have been” dissolved into the murky waters of time and reality rippling out into nothingness.
And yet the days of memories linger on the edge of our reality , the present. As I wait for the pink rose blossoms to once again surround the fountain (you purchased as my “thank you “) mingles with the memory of you carrying it piece by piece that June day to place it where it still sits- I see you the way you carried yourself, muscles taut across your back as the cast concrete weighed upon those arms recently pumped with chemo.
I see you sitting on the edge of the pond slipping in the “Ghost Koi” that Mothers’ Day . The Koi that is now as long as my fingertips to my elbow. He/she slips silently through the waters just a glimpse of the past melding with the present. The reality of missing you and wanting to see you , hear your voice, laughter to make me smile through the grief that is always there waiting…….
I can’t “delete” those memories and the hundreds of them that assail with every passing day. They hurt , even the very good ones but they are you so they can be borne ….
I can and have deleted people from my mind journey – the ones that have caused hurt, they barely exist in my world except when I bring them to the fore because they are mentioned by others – control , alt , delete . I can control those memories . It is if they belong to a different lifetime and actually they do ….. they are the purveyors of wickedness personified , selfishness undiluted and have no room in the “what if”………
Another 3rd, another month another year but you are loved beyond all tears….
May 3rd- Words are all I have- Chris Ritchey
Words- text- communication through a written language. Reading was always difficult for you as a little boy you were at the beginning of a local failing school system. A system that had to show progress, so although you had the extra classes , they passed you through as completing their grant driven reading programs. It wasn’t until the 5th grade we found out , when I had you privately tested, just how bad the problem was. Three years of catch-up and a change to private education.
Those years were hard for you , you thought you must be “stupid”. However, you also developed a skill of communicating “visually” . Eventually reading caught up with your ability to use your art to communicate. You found a niche for your talent at Lorain County Community College https://www.lorainccc.edu/
and on the advice of the college you transferred to Cleveland Institute of Art
artwork Chris Ritchey
It was at the students art show at Cleveland Institute of Art , I was looking at some of your designs etc. I noticed a couple of mistakes in the text. I spoke to the your instructor that evening about the mistakes in the text. He looked at me and said :
“that is not a problem , we can teach and correct spelling etc. what I can’t teach is what your son has, his ability , creativity and talent. I will give a an assignment to the group – “come up with three different advertising concepts on a given product/ client within a week” – Chris, will come back within two days with 10 entirely different takes. I can’t teach that……
Eventually you gained a position as Art Director for Wyse Advertising .
Apparently , according to your boss at the time, you were poised to do great things in advertising … we will never know…. but Wyse were wonderful to you during that terrible time of your illness.
I do remember that first year you worked for Wyse you were asked to do the ad for them in the annual “Torchlight” Membership Directory
The monthly AAF-Cleveland Portfolio features the latest in industry development and trends, association insights and updates, and achievements of local members. “Torchlight,” our annual membership directory, is an invaluable “Who’s Who” reference manual of members, agencies, and services in Cleveland advertising.
The directory was in your portfolio and the ad………. text, words …….. “scan of the full-page ad that appeared in the Torchlight”
Artwork Christopher Ritchey
But there aren’t any words that were so important as the last words you wrote to me – even with the spelling mistake…….I carry them with me every day
Mother’s Day is coming, once again tinged with tears and bitter-sweet ———– I love you…………I need to finish writing the book if I can find the words
Gonna Party like you’re 99 – !!!!!
I have been thinking about this post all week- how do I write about my mum and her life experiences and loves. I decided to let her words tell the tale of the time before – before she was my mum and a young child and woman in her mid twenties. I think she said it best in her book ( published for family only and written to my daughter when she was a wee one) in the foreword :
Cover Design Chris Ritchey
It is sometimes safer to write about other people than about oneself and easier to shape their lives into a consistent pattern. When you come to examine your subject, in this case my life, more closely the process is somewhat more complex and daunting than I originally thought. Every human life is at once so complex, yet simple, so perplexing yet clear, superficial and yet plunges to the depths that attempts to present it as a unified whole may take more talent than your Nana has but I will try.
The times before when she was a young girl scrumping apples with her brother Mark , that didn’t bode well as you will see:
“Parrot snout ( his nickname for her) , tell me whatever you do- if you see anyone whilst I climb to the top of that tree”
“Ok, Mark, I will stand underneath whilst you throw the fruit down”.
What a wonderful bag I collected. The sunshine was brilliant and I got caught up watching the butterflies, I seemed to be lulled with the peace and tranquility of it all. “ What was that I could see? Could it be the policeman’s helmet appearing over the fence and two eyes taking in the scene!”? My voice froze, I could not warn my brother, not a sound came from my throat. I tried and tried to make the sound come “ Oh! Vi don’t muff this one” but I took to my heels, the bag of lovely fruit spilling and scattering in the orchard joining the feast for the wasps. I made for the hole in the fence and bolted without ever looking back, leaving the policeman underneath the tree waiting for an unsuspecting boy to descend.I was terrified, would I once again be shunned and ostracized by all and sundry? My brother angry gave me clip round the ear and said “ I will never take girls along again!”
The opportunity for higher learning denied , although passing her exams and obtaining a scholarship, the family could not afford the extras .
digging for victory
Her first job at the Express Dairy when she was 15 as a window dresser and in charge of the shop – she too became one of the ME TOO – this generation didn’t invent sexual harassment…… https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Me_Too_movement
The visits of Mr. B { a travelling Superintendent for the company } grew more frequent, I grew more apprehensive. I longed to confide my fears to someone, my sister Renee was too young, my mother would have advised and helped me but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell her…what could I tell her as nothing had yet occurred. Events came to a head one afternoon, Mr. B called in; he had a very nice shiny new car and invited me to go for a ride with him that evening. I said I was unable to do so.
”OK then some other time maybe!” Meanwhile he made some coffee, opened a tin of pineapple chunks (4 1/2 d) and a carton of cream (2d) he offered me some. I don’t really know what happened then, but I was suddenly held in a vise like grip, the small table upon which the pineapple and cream were sitting went over, juice spilling all over me! The fingers with the hairs were groping and fumbling, I was shaking with fright, and my overall was off ….my brass buttons “pinged” as they hit the floor.
Sometimes the unbelievable happens, it did a customer came in the shop door. And the bell really saved me! The lady bless her never knew what she did for me that day. I didn’t stop to lock the shop up but tore off on my bicycle, not daring to look around. I turned in my resignation and applied for a position in the G.P.O. (General Post Office)
Mum managed to get a placement
The training school was in Holborn, with dummy switchboards. It seemed there were nothing but aged old dried up spinsters ladies were teaching us,( how unkind and thoughtless we are when we are young.) The wonder of it all when we finally finished our training and passed as “thirty six hour girls” ( you were only allowed to work for 36 hours to start with hence the expression). We were then directed to our “local” telephone exchanges. During this training time which took three months we weren’t paid. How my mother coped not only not having my wages coming in to help but to give me enough for fares and lunches must have been so very difficult for her but somehow she managed.
The meeting of the young man who would eventually be her husband and my father.
. After one of the dances, as was the custom then, we were standing clapping waiting for the band to start up again; a chap around 5ft 9, quite well-built with terrifically strong-looking shoulders and periwinkle blue eyes and with blonde hair, one curl of which had fallen across his forehead. He came over and whisked and danced me to the other end of the room.
Then War!! Mum volunteered for special duty and ended up at the Ministry of Information
Three of us would be required to man the emergency switchboard, which was housed in the basement of the building; this was called the war room. A big square room, around the walls were telephone boxes which were connected with a direct line to all the important ministries for example, the Admiralty, War Office, Air Ministry, Foreign Office, Ministry of Supply etc. etc.
In each telephone box sat a high-ranking official who would be in communication with his respective Ministry. The censors and press officials were they’re sorting and sifting through thousands of reports coming in from all areas of Britain and the world.
These people were tremendous and treated the operators extremely well Lord Reith had taken on the job of Minister of Information; he had been head of the BBC. Winston Churchill, who was then 1st Lord of the Admiralty, used to come through on his direct line “ Good Morning, give me the Minister please” short polite and always to the point. The town clerks and mayors of today in local council could well take a lesson from those gentlemen of yesteryear.
Sir Walter Monkton was there; he was a good friend of the Duke of Windsor who was in France at the time. The Duke would call quite frequently to have a chat with his friend. I enjoyed my work immensely it was extremely busy especially if any kind of action, naval air or army was taking place.
However all was not fun and games my 19-year-old mum working at the Ministry of Information you got the war news before most and one day:
HMS Southampton
her boyfriend’s ship
Damaged during air raid on warships in Forth Estuary.One bomb penetrated three decks. Casualties.
came through the ticker tape
NOTE: ” The Man who Designed the Spitfire” again little life coincidences. The Spitfire first saw action on that October 16th 1939 protecting the Royal Navy and my Dad.
On 16 October 1939, Junkers Ju-88s of 1/KG 30 led by Hauptmann Helmuth Pohle attacked British warships in the Firth of Forth. Nine of the Ju-88s were intercepted over Rosyth by three Spitfires of 603 Squadron, each of which attacked Pohle’s aircraft which was hit repeatedly and crashed into the sea
https://thatwoman.wordpress.com/2010/09/25/long-time-passing-gone-to-fighting-part-6/
However she too was in peril and felt the Nazi Blitz…
It must have been only 9: pm. There seemed to be a great deal of activity outside. We used to be able to tell by the sound of the aircraft engine whether it was one of ours or one of the Germans.
The whistle of the descending bombs and the following explosions was terrifying. We sighed a breath of relief when hearing that explosion didn’t have our name on it. This night I did not hear the whistle nothing suddenly a complete and utter silence. The bricks seemed to be crumbling and falling all around. I tried to hold onto something. I only grabbed at empty space. The air was filled with dust. I realized the house must have received a direct hit and the three people who had been near me had disappeared. I tried calling the silence was eerie and shocking. I had bricks and wood and plaster all around me “was I going to be buried alive?”
There was one sound, a hissing sound coming from somewhere beneath me. “A fractured gas pipe perhaps”. I remembered hearing accounts of people being gassed to death before they had been dug out from all the rubble. I groped all around in that black darkness and found a pipe, maneuvered myself and sat over the leakage. Bricks were still falling but I had heard human voices Maudie and her mother and sister (Barbara) everyone was at least alive. Then came the sound of faint movements. These became clearer and what seemed to be hours later a chalky white face appeared, Mr. Cushing’s. He had been on ARP duty outside and seen his own house go up!
Many hands helped me out; I was the first and escaped with hardly a scratch but was holding a very sore backside and apparently hysterically asked the first aid warden “ can you get gassed in the posterior” he obviously thought I was a little balmy. Mrs. Cushing fared the worse and Maudie and Barbara were very badly bruised and shaken, seeing the remains of what was left of the house. Just one heap of broken bricks, shattered glass and matchsticks only remains of doors and beams. The marvel is that we escaped at all.
These things happened before I even knew this wonderful woman who was to be my mum.
After the war years came family years – chock a block full with uncles , aunts, cousins a lots of laughter. As always there were some bad and terrible times but always through it all was my mum constant , loving and keeping the wolf from the door and being there for me.
MY mum may not have amassed a fortune but I don’t know any other person who has, through the years gathered so many friends and such love, due to her just being her . Never a day goes by when there isn’t at least one card or letter coming through the mail from some far-flung corner of the globe. She is Aunty Vi or Aunty Janet, mother in law and sometimes the “Dame”
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
Best of all she is my mum, and her grandchilden’s
and her Great grand children’s NANA!!!
Happy Birthday Mum this one is for you !
Feb 3rd -Helpless- Chris Ritchey
Heart of Thorns- artwork Chris Ritchey
Another February , and the beginning of the scream , the weeks of feeling totally useless and helpless . Walking in two worlds – trying to remain calm, positive and supportive for the journey thrust upon your young life. All the while my chest collapsing, jaw clenching to stop the tears and terror I was feeling from showing. The weeks and months after you passed trying to stop from going mad, running from the “black dog” of Churchill fame.
The emotional incontinence – staying close to home – not wanting to drive incase the sight of a young man in black Ford 150 truck would split my reality. I learned how to hide, how to suppress the emotional nightmare with tricks of the grief-stricken. We, who have lost our son or our daughter learn lessons no one should have to learn.
The nights when the dying days visit – the mind tools kicking in to temper the ferocity of memory so sleep can come. Turning a corner , one would think, but like the damned cancer it is there lying quietly , building upon itself. I thought I was managing quite well in the last few months and then- not cancer- but once again wanting and trying to get your Nana through a situation caused by bureaucrats. Weeks and months of fighting , trying to make sense of a situation beyond my control . Holding on, trying to be the Loraine I once was …. A bureaucratic wall was thrown up
I couldn’t get through , your Nana’s physical and emotional well-being compromised by an officious, pseudo-listener “gatekeeper” . After months of dealing with her ilk and they, not knowing or caring how this situation was causing such distress to a 98-year-old woman- as the phone was hung up – and I sat stunned – bewildered not knowing where to turn next.
BFA project
Chris Ritchey
And then it happened – the trigger- those feelings of the dying days were unleashed , not in waves but with a flood- overwhelming logic – nothing could stop the torrent- hours and hours of raw emotion, tears that just wouldn’t cease, the sobs that wracked were back – brought forth from their hiding place. Worried faces of family , concern , the questions upon furrowed brows.
Then just as “anger ” at the cretins of your bride’s family kept me upright in those days of total despair and surrender… anger once again surged through the dark and made me strong enough to continue- to fight back against the ignorance – the “people” inflicting pain upon those I love.
Your Nana survived the bureaucrats, thanks to help from those that did and do listen . And I realized once more the wound has not healed- the scar is still only surface deep and it waits…… because there is nothing I can do – even in anger- to see you walk through a doorway once more , hear your voice laugh with you and enjoy you being you………
Tree of Love- Gabriel Miller- moonbeam and light 2017
A few weeks after my son passed, a good friend also felt that same terrible pain of losing her child. There isn’t much you can do or say after those initial weeks to those that have not felt what it is like to be absolutely “gutted” and whose world is no longer together. You are expected to get over it – move on- people can get impatient with your grief, you are a dreadful reminder that a loss of a child can happen to them . You have no outlet for your love that continues to grow. In the following May after Gabe’s passing from this world, Gabe’s father and mother planted a tiny tree ( supposedly a dwarf variety) in the area known as Settlers’ Watch.
Through the seasons the tree was tended with care and love ; the little tree grew . Every year Gabe’s mum and dad light the now the not so little tree- 2015 found it a bit of a stretch for his dad.
This year more than a stretch was needed
and night fell on a snowy Christmas
The little tree, no longer small – grown tall- fed with love and watered with tears shone through the darkness and cold reminding us of a little boy
a sweet child – the light of his mother and father’s very being – the love that is his alone -lights for just a little while the cold dark nights.
Gabriel Miller August 17th-2009- December 31st 2009
Photos Lisa Miller – Lorain 365
Figgy Pudding – A celebration tale – Chris (tmas) Pudding
Traditions in this house took a 180 degree about-face when my son Chris died. I could no longer have Christmas in this house- Oh! my mum has her “Christmas Grotto” in her little living room and Gavin and Braedyn come a decorate her little tree and hang the ornaments.
There are no longer twinkling lights inside or outside this house in celebration of anyone’s birth- the beliefs of my childhood torn asunder.
I have “visited the holidays ” at my daughters for the sake of her and her family and the boys. Traditions changed from my “English Christmas of yesteryear” – now Christmas Eve finds lobsters in the pot – named for those that are not very nice.. and laughter yes, but the traditions of my daughter’s youth and of this house have gone the way of so many things. Yes! I visit the holidays – peace on earth and good will toward men – has a sour note…….. ( too many religious hypocrites, sadness and questions added to the mix of my life)
But Christmas is for children and like every other grandparent last week I smiled, laughed and cried as the kindergartners at Braedyn’s school put on their holiday program . As all the children wore their Santa, Reindeer, Snowflake and Frosty hats little faces all a glow , voices were exuberant in their renditions and they joyously proclaimed the fun that was coming . My eyes and heart fell on Braedyn singing along
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding,Oh, bring us some figgy pudding,Oh, bring us some figgy pudding, And bring it right here.Good tidings we bring you and your kin;We wish you a merry Christmas And a Happy New Year!
I realized not one of them, including my own grandson, probably had any idea what figgy pudding was . For the cooks among you there are two versions – Figgy Pudding and Christmas Pudding – http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/warm-sticky-figgy-pudding-recipe-1918585
Traditionally we and my family, through the generations, used the Christmas Pudding and this is the recipe that is close to what we always served.( although instead of glace fruit – which I hate -we add dried apricots , shredded carrot and a shredded Granny Smith apple .) http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/33519/delicious-christmas-pudding.aspx
Every year my mum and I faithfully made the “real” fruitcake -( not that terrible American facsimile that is tossed like rotten pumpkins) and Christmas Pud. It was tradition and Christopher’s job from about the age of 7 was to bring in the lighted pudding to the table – he loved lighting the pudding but never ate any. The only ones eating it were my mother and I and my husband would “force a little down”. Christopher was the last to light a pudding in this house.
However, as I looked at all those little faces – I said to Nikki:
Gavin and Braedyn have no idea what they sing about with this song . They have never seen a Christmas pudding !
I decided then it was time to hand the tradition over to my daughter and grandsons. We had missed out on “Stir Up Sunday” but better late than never http://metro.co.uk/2017/11/26/stir-up-sunday-what-is-this-christmas-pudding-tradition-all-about-7109142/
All the members of the family, especially the kids, need to take a turn to stir the mixture and everyone should make a secret wish while they stir.
Gavin had gone hunting with his Dad but Braedyn and his mum were game – so over the river and through the snowy streets they came today . Ingredients all measured out and we have a new pudding maker in the family under the watchful eye of his Nana .
We all made our wishes , there were smiles and a few opinions as to how much brandy went into the pudding and now they – the puddings ( we made too much mixture so now we have two) bubble and sing on the stove for the next few hours. I am not sure about the traditional pudding boiling away on Christmas Eve this year with the lobsters in the pot – but to each his own………..
March 3rd -It’s OK- Chris Ritchey
Reaching out- art work- Christopher Ritchey
It’s OK – (okay) the origin of OK has many theories https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/explore/what-is-the-origin-of-the-word-ok
but basically translated – Ok (okay) means it is alright, it is fine or will be OK – will be alright – will be fine.
When something traumatic happens either in real life or in tv / movie land – invariably , along with the hug and the patting on the back http://www.saywhydoi.com/the-back-pat-why-do-we-pat-on-the-back/ comes the words – “it’s OK”
No it isn’t OK really …. but like shaking hands when you meet someone it is something those who try to comfort do.
I found myself yelling at the television as yet another traumatized mother – having disaster over take her family – and the well-meaning friend , the “it’s Ok” tripping from their mouth for want of something to say – throw away words ….
but I am here to tell you when you lose a son or daughter nothing is ever alright, fine or okay in your world ever again.
OK! well I maybe be making a mountain out of a molehill… and bitching about the human condition when we are at a loss for words and trying to be kind and give comfort but it cuts me to the quick when I see and hear those words spoken
The flawed Hand of the Healer by Chris Ritchey
AND it is not okay that my wonderful, talented, loving son with his whole life ahead of him- is nothing more than a memory- and in some cases not even that – whilst the dregs of mankind and other sons cause terror and destruction to the world’s children.
AND it is not OK that once again I am losing from my life a sweet, caring , selfless , sparkling wine of a woman to the obscenity of cancer- another family waiting and watching as she leaves us slowly. It is not OK that she is leaving whilst the cruel bitches of this world thrive………
It is NOT OK Chris that I am here and you are not…….. I love you
March 3, 2018 at 12:20 pm 1 comment