They were both named Margaret; born in the mid twenties; died way too young; and loved their sons dearly.
My connection to them - I also loved their sons - in fact I still do.
I never met Margaret Cherpok Suhey but my home is filled with things that belonged to the woman of Czechoslovakian descent, who was born and raised in a Pennsylvania village and grew up to marry Peter Suhey. When Marge Suhey died in 1997, Rich and I (and my parents) went to New Milford, New Jersey, where we packed a U-HAUL truck and brought back furniture, linens and many other household items that became a part of our home when Rich and I married the next year. Although that marriage was short-lived (because of his death after 8 months and 4 days of marriage), I love all the reminders I have in my home today - that are a part of Rich's heritage.
I'll never forget the first time I saw the other Margaret. My parents and I were en route to Bryan College in Dayton, Tennessee where I was about to enter my freshman year. We found a little restaurant, the Daytona Cafeteria, and as we enjoyed our lunch, we saw two couples at one table and two nice looking young men at another. The next day I saw those young men on campus. They were both aspiring "preacher boys" from Winston Salem, North Carolina.
I later learned that one of the mothers had remarked, "Look at those people, I bet that girl is going to Bryan, too."
I learned that from Margaret Gentry Parker when she and her husband, Raymond came to see their son about 6 weeks after that day in the Daytona Cafeteria.
By this time, Ray Parker and I were an "item".
I did know Margaret Parker very well. And not just my home, but my life, is filled with a huge part of her. I have always appreciated the heritage that my children have - Nesmith/Huffingham or Gentry/Parker. And I have very special memories of my first mother in law.
I think the most precious was the day she said to me - "I'll see you later, Mrs. Parker," as she walked down the aisle to her seat as the mother of the groom on August 5, 1967. Then as each of our children were born, it was so dear to me to see the way she welcomed them into her arms.
Ray was an only child. His mother told me many times how much she loved children and that she missed having more. She was especially sorry she never had a little girl and when Becca was born, she was absolutely thrilled, especially because Becca looked so much like Ray. That joy was doubled when Renee was born and they had a very special relationship. And of course, when we decided that our son should carry on the name and be the "third" Raymond Lee Parker, that was the icing on the cake.
Margaret was heartbroken when my marriage to her son ended. I promised that I would do all I could to keep the grandchildren as near to them as possible. That was not always easy because we lived 750 miles apart. However, I have endeavored (sometimes not as diligently as I should have) to remind the children of their Gentry/Parker heritage.
It was a sad time in 1985 when as our children visited their dad, they learned that Mammaw had ovarian cancer. She lived about 18 months from that diagnosis. I'll always remember our visit to her bedside that Thanksgiving night and be grateful that my parents had helped me take the children to see their grandmother and their dad - in what would be a time of grief for him.
Today is the day that Margaret Irene Gentry was born.
When I think of her as a mother-in-law, I think of what I want to be now that I am in the same position. It is my prayer that I will be supportive of my children and their mates and that I will honor their commitment. I know that I love and appreciate each of them (Dale, Wally and Kristen) for what they have brought into my children's lives.
I was "officially" a daughter in law to Margaret Parker for about 15 years, but I always felt like I was a daughter in love. In the same manner, I have been a mother in law for 17, 16 and 12 years -- and if I could give myself another name I would like it to be mother-in-love!
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Sunday, June 17, 2012
The man in his little girls' lives
He was the first and probably the best (with apologies to our boyfriends, husbands, sons and grandsons) "man in his little girls' lives" and I don't need to email or call Cindy to ask - I know she is feeling the exact same thing I feel on this Father's Day in 2012. I miss my daddy.
I still feel him in the room. Most of the writing I do is in the same room where I watched on September 16, 2009 as daddy relaxed and as I have often said seemed to sort of waft out the window. He had told my son that he was curious as to what Heaven would be like and that day, he was about to find out.
Most people think it was an adjustment for me when my parents moved in with me - and it was. However just after daddy had died, my cousin, Jeanne Collins, remarked that she thought it must have been hard on him - no longer being the responsible one when that had been his role for so many years.
I wish I had been more sensitive to that. I just thought "this is my house and I should be responsible - so there".
Somehow I had been able to hide the fact that I have a temper from my father - for almost 60 years. Once we lived in the same house, I had nowhere to go when I was angry. Daddy was shocked!
Being the good daddy that he was, he took it in and he tried, really tried, not to let it bother him or worse to reprimand me. That did not always happen. Toward the end of his life, he would say something like "short fuse" which only served to make me angrier.
When I think of those times, three years down the pike, I think "for crying out loud; why in the world did you let those little foxes spoil the vines?" Maybe he didn't always understand me (and who always understands their children) but he was always "there" for us - from my mother to my siblings to our children and grandchildren.
Daddy was the epitome of the analogy in Scripture of God the Father's love and care for us being likened to the love a father has for his child. One commentator described it as "the tender love as such is borne by the parent for his offspring; the disposition to care for its needs; the readiness to forgive when an offence has been committed."
That's a great definition of the kind of father Earl Huffingham was.
When my first marriage ended, daddy reassured me, comforted me, and helped me with the difficult decisions that had to be made. For thirty years I have known that part of the reason my children adjusted as well as they did was that my parents were around to help.
That is also the position that my chidren's father would take. He has often said that he is very grateful for my parents' involvement in our children's lives. I appreciate his attitude.
Our children are grown now with children of their own. And from my seat, it looks like all seven of my grandchildren feel just as secure in the love that their dads offer them as I always felt.
Which brings me back to my dad - who loved me when I was at my best - and when I was at my worst. And who always made my sister and me glad that he was the "first man in his little girls' lives".
 |
| Cindy, daddy, Paula at Cindy's daughter, Leslie's wedding to Jason Beck (May, 2008) |
Thursday, June 14, 2012
The truth, just the truth and nothing but the truth
None of us remember things exactly the same way. In my mind it is usually one way and that's most often not the way someone else remembers it.
I thought of that concept this morning as I made some French toast.
In my son Tray's mind, we had French toast every morning during his time in high school. His sisters were both in college and between the Fall of 1992 and June, 1995, we followed the same routine I had started many years before. I always woke my children up with a cup of coffee. I would sit with them as they started to enjoy that first cup - each one individually - first Becca, then Renee and finally Tray. It seemed to me to be a good time to visit with my children (I am not sure they agree with that) as we talked about what was ahead for them and for all of us as the day got started. I never actually prayed aloud with them, but it was my way of letting them know they were important to me and that I would be thinking of them and praying for them during the day.
Sorry, I'm digressing.
Back to the French toast.
We did have coffee every morning and maybe Tray is right. French toast was easy. The kitchen and my bathroom were in close proximity and I could multi-task with no trouble. Heat the pan, put on make up base. While one side browned - the eye shadow, liner, mascara were applied. As the second side browned, I could usually get the blush and final touches done. If the toast got cold before he got there to eat it, he could stick it in the microwave for a few seconds and it would be fine. While he ate, I fixed my hair. Then one of us would put the dishes in the sink and we were off. - him to Englewood High School and me to my job at Vistakon. I had it down to a science.
But I really don't think we French toast every morning.
However, one of the things my son and I have in common is that we both remember every thing that happens. And some things stay in our mind so strongly that it seems like we did it many times when it might have happened only occasionally.
For example -
River Road is a favorite place of mine. I go there often to meet my friend, Marigrace, and give her a ride somewhere. I like to get there early enough so that I can enjoy the river or as she says "get my river fix".
In addition to enjoying the view, I have happy memories of that place.
When my sister, Cindy and I were little girls, our mother went to work at Atlantic Discount, a company that processed automobile loans. Her rationale for doing this was that she wanted to buy a car (which she did, a little blue plymouth that was affectionately known as her puddle jumper). She tells me that she worked there only a few months.
It seems that daddy, Cindy and I spent many Saturdays enjoying a picnic lunch right there on River Road. Happy memories - except...
We probably went there one Saturday, maybe two. And it must have been that mother worked a half day and we were there before time to pick her up. Her office was not too far from where we picniced.
Once I wrote that I remembered riding bikes with my children and that it reminded me of the scene in The Sound of Music when the VonTrapp children rode through the countryside singing "Do Re Mi".
In my mind, we did it lots of times. My children say once or maybe twice.
So tell me, when I remember something that gave me joy and it grows in my mind - and I write about it - is that embellishing? Am I stretching the truth? Is it okay to stretch the truth? In the world of writers, we call this "poetic license". We have to be careful because if we stretch it too far, it can become slander or libel - but how far can we go?
As a Christian, I think it's important to tell the truth. One of the Ten Commandments addresses that when it tells us not to bear false witness. Philippians 3:8 says "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things," (New International Version).
Think about what's true; concentrate on truth. But also think on things that are lovely, admirable, praisworthy.
That would be things like the river; memories of growing up as Earl and Iva Huffingham's daughter and Cindy Huffingham Williams' sister; the fun I had raising my children and yes, even the French toast that Tray got so tired of.
Do I embellish? Really not that much. After all it is important to tell the truth, just the truth and nothing but the truth? And here's another question - is there ever a time that we shouldn't tell the truth? Let's save that thought for another day.
.
I thought of that concept this morning as I made some French toast.
In my son Tray's mind, we had French toast every morning during his time in high school. His sisters were both in college and between the Fall of 1992 and June, 1995, we followed the same routine I had started many years before. I always woke my children up with a cup of coffee. I would sit with them as they started to enjoy that first cup - each one individually - first Becca, then Renee and finally Tray. It seemed to me to be a good time to visit with my children (I am not sure they agree with that) as we talked about what was ahead for them and for all of us as the day got started. I never actually prayed aloud with them, but it was my way of letting them know they were important to me and that I would be thinking of them and praying for them during the day.
Sorry, I'm digressing.
Back to the French toast.
We did have coffee every morning and maybe Tray is right. French toast was easy. The kitchen and my bathroom were in close proximity and I could multi-task with no trouble. Heat the pan, put on make up base. While one side browned - the eye shadow, liner, mascara were applied. As the second side browned, I could usually get the blush and final touches done. If the toast got cold before he got there to eat it, he could stick it in the microwave for a few seconds and it would be fine. While he ate, I fixed my hair. Then one of us would put the dishes in the sink and we were off. - him to Englewood High School and me to my job at Vistakon. I had it down to a science.
But I really don't think we French toast every morning.
However, one of the things my son and I have in common is that we both remember every thing that happens. And some things stay in our mind so strongly that it seems like we did it many times when it might have happened only occasionally.
For example -
 |
| A view of Jacksonville from River Road in San Marco |
In addition to enjoying the view, I have happy memories of that place.
When my sister, Cindy and I were little girls, our mother went to work at Atlantic Discount, a company that processed automobile loans. Her rationale for doing this was that she wanted to buy a car (which she did, a little blue plymouth that was affectionately known as her puddle jumper). She tells me that she worked there only a few months.
It seems that daddy, Cindy and I spent many Saturdays enjoying a picnic lunch right there on River Road. Happy memories - except...
We probably went there one Saturday, maybe two. And it must have been that mother worked a half day and we were there before time to pick her up. Her office was not too far from where we picniced.
Once I wrote that I remembered riding bikes with my children and that it reminded me of the scene in The Sound of Music when the VonTrapp children rode through the countryside singing "Do Re Mi".
In my mind, we did it lots of times. My children say once or maybe twice.
So tell me, when I remember something that gave me joy and it grows in my mind - and I write about it - is that embellishing? Am I stretching the truth? Is it okay to stretch the truth? In the world of writers, we call this "poetic license". We have to be careful because if we stretch it too far, it can become slander or libel - but how far can we go?
As a Christian, I think it's important to tell the truth. One of the Ten Commandments addresses that when it tells us not to bear false witness. Philippians 3:8 says "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things," (New International Version).
Think about what's true; concentrate on truth. But also think on things that are lovely, admirable, praisworthy.
That would be things like the river; memories of growing up as Earl and Iva Huffingham's daughter and Cindy Huffingham Williams' sister; the fun I had raising my children and yes, even the French toast that Tray got so tired of.
Do I embellish? Really not that much. After all it is important to tell the truth, just the truth and nothing but the truth? And here's another question - is there ever a time that we shouldn't tell the truth? Let's save that thought for another day.
.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Five men and a ceiling fan
I was crazy about my daddy - and sometimes he drove me crazy.
Try as I did, I never could convince him that I do not have to rely on a man to help me with projects that are traditionally male-oriented. I have a tool box, know what to do with a paint brush and can usually tell what might be wrong when something sounds unusual in my car. That last one is a bit of a stretch.
Daddy was not unlike most men of his generation. He just thought there were things I shouldn't do. We had a running discussion - mostly on what I shouldn't do - because to me he was saying they were things I couldn't do. And I never stopped wanting to prove to him that I could do anything I set my mind to.
It would really get me when he implied that I was not capable of the task at hand. It made me think he thought I was weak.
When Rich Suhey died, it got worse. Now not only was I not supposed to do things because I am a female. I was a "little widow woman" who needed the help of a man.
Please don't misunderstand me. It's not that I don't like a little attention. If I am being truly honest, my problem is that I don't like to wait on a little attention.
That said - I can also say that I know what the Bible says about widows and orphans (James 1:27) but I mean really...I usually can do what I might need a man to do.
Several months ago as I was changing a burned out bulb in the ceiling fan/light that hangs over my desk, there was a pop and then there was nothing - no fan, no light. I kept thinking I was going to get it fixed. It just never was a priority.
Until the warm days of Spring became the hot days of Summer. And as much time as I spend at a computer - I needed the light.
"Let's ask the MUGS to do it," my mother suggested. The MUGS are Men Under God's Service at Mandarin Presbyterian Church where she worships. They love her there and are always offering to help with anything she might need.
I kept saying no. Until finally, I told her to go for it.
The day that they were coming arrived. I had spent the early hours of the day working in my garden. I planned to take a shower, etc before they were due (this tells you I'm okay with being a female, right?). However, Doug and Rob arrived to find a dirt-splattered, no make-up or hair fixed Paula.
Oh well. An additional need was that the sprinkler system didn't seem to be running exactly as it should - Could they take a look at it? They would be happy to but suggested addressing the electrical issue first. That would be simple.
The two men had worked for over an hour when my doorbell rang. Pat and Phil had come to their rescue. In a few minutes, Randy, the chair person of MUGS arrived.
I told them it was rare for me to have one man in my office. It was pretty cool to have five.
Another hour. They really were perplexed. I was ready to go purchase a new ceiling fan. Pat was not going to let this go. He knew it could be fixed.
Then one of them pulled a little black cover from the housing of the apparatus. A light bulb went off in my head.
Does the fact that the ceiling fan has a remote have anything to do with this?
"Everything to do with this," someone said.
I felt like one of those women who calls the washing machine repairman before checking to see if all the cords are plugged in.
Within minutes the ceiling fan was oscillating and the office was filled with light.
In all of our defense, the original problem had nothing to do with the remote. However, when their electrical tester was showing there was power and the light was still not working, that's when the fact that there was a remote entered into the equation.
Almost three hours had passed. Five men had joined together to fix a ceiling fan. And the strangest thing to me was that they all acted like they were having a good time. Their actions brought to mind a Bible verse. "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men," (Colossians 3:23).
What a blessing these men, who really love my mother, were to me!
As I watched them leave, I noticed they were all smiling. Well, maybe they were laughing. Maybe they thought I really was like the lady who didn't check the plug before calling the repairman - maybe they were thinking the same thing my daddy might have been saying -- it's just because she's a girl. But I tell you what I think...
What else needs fixing around here?
Try as I did, I never could convince him that I do not have to rely on a man to help me with projects that are traditionally male-oriented. I have a tool box, know what to do with a paint brush and can usually tell what might be wrong when something sounds unusual in my car. That last one is a bit of a stretch.
Daddy was not unlike most men of his generation. He just thought there were things I shouldn't do. We had a running discussion - mostly on what I shouldn't do - because to me he was saying they were things I couldn't do. And I never stopped wanting to prove to him that I could do anything I set my mind to.
It would really get me when he implied that I was not capable of the task at hand. It made me think he thought I was weak.
When Rich Suhey died, it got worse. Now not only was I not supposed to do things because I am a female. I was a "little widow woman" who needed the help of a man.
Please don't misunderstand me. It's not that I don't like a little attention. If I am being truly honest, my problem is that I don't like to wait on a little attention.
That said - I can also say that I know what the Bible says about widows and orphans (James 1:27) but I mean really...I usually can do what I might need a man to do.
Several months ago as I was changing a burned out bulb in the ceiling fan/light that hangs over my desk, there was a pop and then there was nothing - no fan, no light. I kept thinking I was going to get it fixed. It just never was a priority.
Until the warm days of Spring became the hot days of Summer. And as much time as I spend at a computer - I needed the light.
"Let's ask the MUGS to do it," my mother suggested. The MUGS are Men Under God's Service at Mandarin Presbyterian Church where she worships. They love her there and are always offering to help with anything she might need.
I kept saying no. Until finally, I told her to go for it.
The day that they were coming arrived. I had spent the early hours of the day working in my garden. I planned to take a shower, etc before they were due (this tells you I'm okay with being a female, right?). However, Doug and Rob arrived to find a dirt-splattered, no make-up or hair fixed Paula.
Oh well. An additional need was that the sprinkler system didn't seem to be running exactly as it should - Could they take a look at it? They would be happy to but suggested addressing the electrical issue first. That would be simple.
The two men had worked for over an hour when my doorbell rang. Pat and Phil had come to their rescue. In a few minutes, Randy, the chair person of MUGS arrived.
I told them it was rare for me to have one man in my office. It was pretty cool to have five.
Another hour. They really were perplexed. I was ready to go purchase a new ceiling fan. Pat was not going to let this go. He knew it could be fixed.
Then one of them pulled a little black cover from the housing of the apparatus. A light bulb went off in my head.
Does the fact that the ceiling fan has a remote have anything to do with this?
"Everything to do with this," someone said.
I felt like one of those women who calls the washing machine repairman before checking to see if all the cords are plugged in.
Within minutes the ceiling fan was oscillating and the office was filled with light.
In all of our defense, the original problem had nothing to do with the remote. However, when their electrical tester was showing there was power and the light was still not working, that's when the fact that there was a remote entered into the equation.
Almost three hours had passed. Five men had joined together to fix a ceiling fan. And the strangest thing to me was that they all acted like they were having a good time. Their actions brought to mind a Bible verse. "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men," (Colossians 3:23).
What a blessing these men, who really love my mother, were to me!
As I watched them leave, I noticed they were all smiling. Well, maybe they were laughing. Maybe they thought I really was like the lady who didn't check the plug before calling the repairman - maybe they were thinking the same thing my daddy might have been saying -- it's just because she's a girl. But I tell you what I think...
What else needs fixing around here?
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