Remembering Spanky

Today, on her 19th birthday, Spanky Murray-Sanchez crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, joining JC, Knickie, Morgaine, Jerry, and Gwinnie.

Spanky was a Jack Russell Terrier, half smooth and half rough.  Dr. Phil Hinko, her Vet, always laughingly asked, “What’s this?” when he saw her funny coat.  This morning, Dr. Hinko and his wonderful staff provided a soft pink mat, a lit candle, and gentle assistance as we helped her transition to the Rainbow Bridge.

She was born in Santa Fe, and was originally named Baby Cakes. When we went to pick her out, she picked us out, bringing us a tennis ball and demanding we play with her now.  We named her Spanky, the nickname Dad Byron gave his youngest daughter, Maggie.  It was the Easter weekend when she joined our family; we took her to meet my niece, Patrice Vigil, who was five, and she fit nicely in Patrice’s Easter basket.

Spanky loved her Unca Zeo, and he (my brother Leo) loved her right back. Before the other dogs joined the family, Spanky would get so excited when he came to visit.  Leo and Spanky played with the tinker light, with Spanky running back and forth across the passageway between the living room and the den.  When her Unca Zeo came to visit, Spanky didn’t care about anything or anyone but him – she sat next to him and wouldn’t go outside to do her business unless he went with her.

Since her days as a puppy, Spanky spent every evening lying next to me in a lounge chair, wrapped up in her plaid blanket like a burrito.  I always had to buy a lounge chair that was wide enough for Spanky to fit comfortably.  In addition to being the cuddle-Mommie, I am the treat-Mommie, so Spanky followed me around, lying at my feet in the kitchen as I fixed dinner, waiting to catch a stray morsel or two, or waiting patiently for a piece of chicken jerky.  Maggie is the toys-Mommie, so Spanky would chase tennis balls and the tinker light whenever she could coax her Mommie Maggie to play. (In her younger days, she was relentless!)  She slowed down as she got older, and eventually couldn’t run after the tinker.  She would bark at it when the other dogs and cats chased it, but she knew she could only watch.

As the years went by, she was joined by the Munchkin cats (there are now nine: Toby, Ashley, Daisy, Lucy, Abe, Max, Ozzie, Thea, and Simon); Echo, the Jack Russell Terrier that came from Maggie’s Mom; and the Vizslas, Buddy and Tricie.

Today, she left her furry siblings behind to take care of her Mommies, and she began chasing the stars as they dart across the Rainbow Bridge, with the energy of Baby Cakes.

Wrapped in Golden Wings – A tribute to Olga Pat Smith

On Tuesday, December 8, 2015, Olga Patricia Smith flew through the gates of heaven, wrapped in the golden wings of the Archangels.

Maggie had spent the last few weeks commuting to Roswell, working with the care staff; helping her mother transition from assisted living to hospice care; making sure her fears were heard.  Mom Pat often said she wasn’t ready; perhaps now she was ready.

Every morning I carefully place four objects in my pocket: my Fitbit to monitor my steps and health; my Guardian Angel comfort stone; a medal of St. Michael; and a crucifix.  As I put them in my pocket, I pray for wisdom and discernment, and for guidance and protection throughout the day.  However, on Tuesday morning, I also prayed to the angels to wrap Mom Pat in their loving wings to protect her when the time comes.  When Maggie got “the call”, I had a vision of Mom Pat wrapped in golden wings.

One of the things that Maggie accomplished last week was to move her Mom out of the assisted living center. Mom Pat frequently went in and out of  lucidity, but she made sure that Maggie took The Clock with her. On Tuesday night, Maggie brought out The Clock, and I was stunned. It is a beautiful clock that gently plays Beatle songs on the hour, with beautiful lights and motion.  Seeing and hearing the clock this morning reminded me of Mom Pat, as well as Dad Byron.

Dad Byron died in 1999.  He was a jeweler before he retired, and continued after his retirement. He lovingly repaired clocks and watches, including two of my own watches.  Jewelers of his day knew how to care for cuckoo clocks and similar treasures, so this clock would be something he would appreciate.  The Clock starts each hour’s serenade with the opening line of “Here, There, and Everywhere”—“To lead a better life, I need my love to be here.” 

“But to love her is to need her everywhere

Knowing that love is to share
Each one believing that love never dies
Watching her eyes
And hoping I'm always there”

Dad Byron was always there for Mom Pat; on Tuesday, she joined him in the Everywhere, where love never dies.

I love you, Olga Pat Smith. Thank you for blessing our lives with your grace and humor.

Life Lessons from a Loom

Santa gave me a weaving loom for Christmas. While we were shopping in November, I saw a scarf that was woven, and I thought to myself, “That might be fun to learn.” Later that month, I saw a Cricket Loom online, and wrote a letter to Santa.

Since I was a small child, I have loved yarn and fabric crafts. I learned to do fine crochet from my mother, who would crochet doilies, runners, and edges for pillow cases. From doilies I “graduated” to yarn crochet, passing my time making afghans and baby blankets. Lately I have crocheted many prayer shawls as a ministry, presenting them to people who need the comfort and warmth of a shawl, because of cancer treatment, bereavement, or other struggles, or because of a special event with promises for the future.  I also began learning to knit, though not very successfully. (Santa also gave me a knitting video; maybe that will help.)

Learning to weave has taught or reinforced many life lessons, starting with…

It’s not as easy as it looks: As with most tools and kits, there were many parts, and the written instructions were woefully inadequate. From putting together the loom to setting up a project with the yarn, I could not, for the life of me, understand or interpret the diagrams. Fortunately, there is YouTube.  I found videos that showed me exactly what to do, and Maggie managed the video timing to help me assemble the loom. I save the links to videos of various techniques into my iPad, so I can view them as I learn.

Learn the lingo: Like all professions, weaving has its own language and terminology. I had to learn warp and weft, ends and picks, shed and heddle, shuttle and beating, fell and selvedge. I needed to know the terminology in order to read a weaving pattern, or to talk about the process with another weaver. That’s how it is with anything I have learned: crochet has its language, so does knitting, sewing, woodwork or leatherwork… and life.

Patience is a virtue:  As I tried to understand the instructions and set up the loom for a project, I often had to undo my work or start all over again. What should take a few minutes to accomplish often stretched out to an hour. I had to know when to stop, take a deep breath, and think the process through.

 

Practice makes perfect: I started my weaving with a narrow piece, so I could learn the technique and not waste the yarn. Once I felt I had learned, I made a scarf for Santa. The repetition allowed me to practice with proper spacing, tension, starting and ending. I look at Santa’s scarf now and chuckle at how funky it looks compared to today’s projects. Scarves are good practice projects; I made a scarf to learn to knit, and crochet scarves are quick to complete now.

There is mindfulness in art: The constant repetition of a basic weaving stitch – shed, pick, beat, shed, pick, beat, back and forth, over and under – requires a mindfulness that can become similar to meditation.  The same thing happens with crocheting a shawl, or beading a rosary. I have learned not to multi-task, in almost anything I do, even at work. I prefer instead to focus on the task at hand. So it has been a welcome mindfulness practice as I learned to weave. I also don’t get mad at myself when I make a mistake – I simply notice it and move on to fix it. I now understand why my mother crocheted the doilies; it must have been a welcome escape from the busyness of child rearing and housekeeping.

It’s easy to obsess: The joy of creating fabric – the textures and colors – made me want to make more and more. I found myself looking for more videos, imagining what a certain color combination would look like; wanting to hit the yarn sale at Michael’s; staying up too late reading my weaving book. I couldn’t wait for the weekend in order to warp my loom and start a new project. I enjoyed it so much that I bought a wider loom, so that I could make shawls. When I am almost finished with one shawl, and I already have the next one in my mind.

Time flies: When I am engrossed in something, I lose track of time. I have to set a timer or alarm to remind me that there is more to my life – like laundry, fixing dinner, sleeping – and at some point I have to stop, knowing that the loom will be waiting for me in the corner, like a faithful companion who can captivate me into peace and calm.

Honoring Dad

Wisdom ceases to be wisdom when it becomes too proud to weep, too grave to laugh, and too selfish to seek other than itself.  

Kahlil Gibran

Cristobal J. Sanchez was wisdom.

Like him, I have the tendency to weep when my soul and spirit are touched by the sight of a new baby, the sound of a loved one crying, or the thought of a precious moment in time. I remember many such moments when a tear would well up in his eye and trickle down his rosy-ruddy cheek.  I remember his silent tears when Mom would say or do something that hurt one of us as she meted out discipline. I remember the silent tear that fell down his cheek when we gathered around the television to watch the Kennedy funeral.

Like him, I don’t often laugh out loud, but I enjoy a good laugh. Dad sat in front of the television set with a huge grin as he watched Fred Sanford, Lucy Ricardo, and the Hee Haw gang. I remember when he reached for butter and got margarine. “Dad, is that real butter?” we asked. “No, es la Margie,” he replied.

I try to be like him at his most unselfish – when he opened his home to extended family and he and Mom somehow managed to feed 20-30 mouths. When Dad came home in the evening from Los Alamos, he brought a package of Bit-O-Honey and distributed the individual candies into the small waiting hands of his children. He turned off the television news in order to sit and pray with the rosary with us. He built the house on Del Norte Lane with only the help of a couple of my uncles, and he lovingly maintained it for his wife and children.

We didn’t buy ties for Dad on Father’s Day – he rarely wore ties, which were too confining around his broad neck. He only wore them for extra-special occasions, like the weddings of his children.  Instead, we bought him Old Spice after shave, and he used it obligingly before going back to his Aqua Velva. We gave him white handkerchiefs, which he always carried with him. I remember ironing his handkerchiefs and carefully ironing in the creases. (My brother Anthony still carries white cloth handkerchiefs.)

I was in San Francisco when Dad went into hospice care in 1973. I remember getting the call on October 25^th to come home, as the time was nigh. I hopped on a plane the next morning, arriving in Albuquerque at about 1:30. Gil Baca picked me up at the airport and brought me straight to his room at St. Vincent Hospital on Palace Avenue. He was in a coma, but I know he was aware we were around. At dinner time, the family left to go home, but Cris and I stayed behind. As I held his hand and whispered, “I love you, Daddy”, his eyes were filled with tears, and one tear trickled down my cheek. He took one long, last breath.

Happy Father’s Day, Cristobal J. Sanchez. I love you, Daddy

Honoring Mother

This year marks nine years since Mom went to be with the Lord. As I did my meditation walk today, I thought about Mom, and growing up on Del Norte Lane. 

My memories of Estella Medina Sanchez are wonderfully sensory: the smell of fresh-baked bread when I got home after school; the feel of the safety pins attached to Mom’s apron when I reached out to hug her (she was always ready to fix a tear or replace a loose button with those safety pins; sometimes they were baby diaper pins); the taste of Mom’s apple pie, made from the apples that she bought from the flatbed truck that traveled up and down Del Norte Lane; the sight of Mom’s grandchildren and the daycare children climbing all over her as she sat in her chair in the living room; the sound of her reciting the first part of the Hail Mary, as we recited the second part, kneeling around the bed in the master bedroom in front of the picture of the Holy Family every night in May and November. I still hear the song-like cadences in my head as I pray my rosary when I need to gather the stillness around me.

I grew up at a time that through today’s lenses seems so simple. It was the time of Donna Read, June Cleaver, Lucy Ricardo, and Jacqueline Kennedy. I said, “Yes, ma’am”; willingly got on my hands and knees to wash and wax the floor; ironed pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and Dad’s t-shirts; and baked oatmeal cookies and lemon meringue pie from scratch (or almost from scratch – I did have to cook the Jello lemon pudding, but it used the egg yolks, and I used the egg whites for the meringue). I studied with my sisters and brothers around the dining room and kitchen table, with KOMA playing in the background. Mom saw to it that we did all of this, and taught us when necessary. I can still hear the sound of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”.

Mom taught us to wash our clothes in a wringer washer attached by a hose to the kitchen sink, and we hung the laundry out to dry on the line in the back yard. In the winter, the wet clothes would freeze, and we would have to bring them in to drape them all around the kitchen and dining room to finish drying. I can still feel the frozen laundry in my fingers.

Mom taught me to crochet doilies – intricate pineapple doilies that, when finished, were starched with blue perfumed starch and ironed meticulously. She taught me how to sew on a beautiful black Singer sewing machine, which she used to patch the boys’ jeans to get a few more months of wear out of them. She made us colorful Fiesta dresses, with yards and yards of ruffles and rick-rack. We wore them with starched petticoats and went to the Santa Fe Fiesta festivities all dolled up. I remember the Fiesta dresses whenever I see rick-rack at Hobby Lobby.

In my younger years, my hair was short, cut Buster Brown-style by my Dad at the same time he cut the boys’ hair. As I grew older, Mom let my hair grow out. She made Shirley Temple curls in my hair on Saturday night, using strips from old pillow cases to form the ringlets. I still smell the Prell Shampoo.

It’s easy to reflect on sad, hurtful events – all of us have had them – but it’s more important to honor those we love with loving memories – all of us have them, too.

I have my mother’s hands, so I see them all day as I tap out words on the keyboard. I honor you Mom. Happy Mother's Day!