Vacation

We're away at our favorite cozy cottage at the beach for a week. But, have no fear, we brought 3 computers with us and the cottage has free wifi. The only thing missing is my mom who has come with us for all our trips for the past several years. This year, she gets to go see the other ocean and help while my brother and sister-in-law welcome another niece or nephew. How cool is it that they don't know whether it's a boy or a girl? Retro-cool. I wish I'd had that sort of restraint!

It's still the same beach, but I sure do miss Mom.

Swing and Sway with Sammy Kaye

My mom blogs about the story of how she met Dad. I wrote about it a long time ago.

Today would have been Dad's 79th birthday.

Blogger Meet-Up

I know many bloggers. Some I knew as college friends. Some were my professors at law school. Some are related to me. But Sunday was the first time I ever met someone in person who I'd only known through blogging. I can tell you I was nervous. First impressions and one chance and all that. And then, being a little AR, I was concerned about the logistics. And then I was concerned about my family making a good impression, too.

When we travel, I like to stop at restaurants that are kid-friendly, but which have waitresses. [I'm on vacation. Why should I fetch the food?] That limits us to Cracker Barrels, Friendly's, and Bob Evanses mostly.

Annie and Jacques arrived as our food did. The first thing J did was point to his cheek, where I dutifully planted a big kiss. J, even in a wheelchair, is a big hulking bear of a man. Annie is lithe and trim and moves like a woman 30 years her junior. She is sunny and upbeat and delightful. We ran through conversation so quickly it amazed me. Perhaps there's something in a blogger's personality that borders on A.D.D. We never really finished a topic, but a new one would emerge. Dave quietly evaporated with the three wee ones to the van where an onboard DVD player and classic Looney Tunes were playing. We continued our conversation. Dave called me on the cell phone encouraging me to return to the vehicle for the last small push home. It had been over an hour. I swear it felt like 5 minutes. [I had a similar experience when I was on the phone with Sippican, ostensibly ordering my children's table and chair set.]

We lingered in the parking lot with pictures and what have you. Annie showed her prowess at putting J back in the vanishing iVan. He had to cooperate by leaning back in his chair at just the right time and she had to balance everything just right. It was a perfectly choreographed ballet.

And then we drove off, my mind whirling at the joy of meeting someone whose work I so admire, both on and off her blog.

The Harbinger

Mom flies in tomorrow and will join us for a week at the beach later this month. Anticipating her arrival also creates a flurry of little lists in my brain for all the things I need to get, pack, and remember for me and the three wee. Daddy packs for himself and, with the skill of a professional shoehorn operator, loads the van with all the gear. We have been making this fall excursion for 3 years now and it's a great last blast of summer in anticipation of the rocket-sled to New Year's. Her coming portends the arrival of many good things.

Family Fun Outing: Dinner and the Park

We had a lovely do-little day and dinner out tonight at Zeke's favorite place for chocolate shakes: Applebees. All the kids were famished and so I got the waitress to snag me some crackers to tide them over. Mary Jo asked for her "crack-uh" and Zeke corrected her with, "do you mean your crack-ore?"

Daddy, not missing a beat, replied, "No. That would be bad." Whereupon Granny and I grinned. And I said, "I'm so going to blog that."

After a nice dinner [truly, any one where I'm not cooking or cleaning up has to be nice], we went to the park and the kids ran off some steam before regular bedtime.

Must Be a Special Day

I took a day off because there was just too much to do for Mom's arrival, plus it was a holy day of obligation and both she and I went tonight.

It's a rarity for me to be home when the kids get up from their nap. Zeke trundled in and saw that I was cooking. He looked up at me and mused, "it must be a special day if Mama is cooking."

Expected Visitor

Granny should be arriving tomorrow afternoon for a few weeks' visit. The girls' fourth birthday is coming up and Granny hasn't missed any of them so far. It is such a gift to have a parent who travels so readily to see her grandchildren. I barely knew either of my grandmothers because I only saw them for about a week each, during the annual car trip East. That changed a little when my dad's mother, Nana, moved to our little town for her final years and she became much better known to all of us children. Dave's grandparents lived across the road from him and he saw them every day. We knew we wanted our children to know their grandparents. Mom's frequent visits and Dave's Dad's close proximity allow for that. We are very grateful.

Mementos of Dad

When Mom was here recently, I told her that I was a little sad that I got no memento when Dad died. My brother, his only son, naturally got the family treasures, but I was left with nothing tangible. We discussed it for awhile and left it for other topics.

The other day I received a package from Mom. In it, she included the wooden shoeshine box that I watched Dad pull out every Saturday. He learned a good spit-shine in the Army and he polished up his oxfords every week. Many of his sales calls were to farmers or dusty agricultural co-ops, so he had a lot of work to do to keep them looking spiffy. Years later when I met my husband in the Army, he, too, devoted a great deal of time and effort at keeping his boots and shoes looking neat. In fact, Dave, out of either pity or the chance to impress, taught me how to do a good spit-shine, too. [Key fact: use no spit. Cold water is much better.]

Mom also sent Dad's first rosary, blessed by Pope Benedict. Two of his friends brought it to him from a recent pilgrimmage to Rome. I find it funny that Dad's first pope as a Catholic was John Paul II, while mine was Pope Paul VI. [I missed it being John XXIII by only a few months.]

Finally, she included a small 'zen garden' that Dave and I gave to Dad for Father's Day five years ago. He was well along into his Alzheimer's and that little novelty gave his hands something to do besides trace the placemat with his juice glass. It now sits on my desktop with a small note that reads, "Serenity now."

They are all perfect little reminders of Dad: Army Dad, Catholic Dad, stricken Dad.

Brunch Without the Bunch

For Mother's Day, I took Mom to my local favorite for brunch. Brunch in Wisconsin is an event, a graze-a-thon, an avenue of gluttony. Brunch in North Carolina is a subdued affair. We had a lovely little brunch. It was my present to Mom. Dave's present to me was letting me have brunch without the little ones.

Fun, Fine and Festive

I had another busy day being the domestic-goddess-who-plans-birthday-parties. I also had to be around for the plumber who came, saw and refused to do the repair [short version: we won't be recommending Roto-Rooter to anyone real soon.] Thank goodness I have lots of help with Nanny and Mom who's still visiting. It was a good day that went about an hour too late. Too many tired kids toked up on chocolate cake. Aaah, well. That's what birthdays are all about.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today would have been my father's 78th birthday. Last year we celebrated his 77th at Myrtle Beach. We bought him a chocolate cake with chocolate icing that he enjoyed every meal Mom let him. We splurged and bought two '7' candles. I assured my mom that I'd use them for Zeke's 7th and the girls'. [By then, they'll probably be insisting on separate cakes anyway.]

So in this year of last things, we have almost made another trip around the sun. If I were being theologically correct, I would not tell Dad 'Happy Birthday' until July 3rd--the day of his birth to eternal life. But this day is the one I will remember because of all the May 4ths of my youth, and I'll cherish the memory that his last birthday on earth was spent in my little corner of the world with my little family including my son, another May baby, who is named for him.

Wifi? Why Try?

We're at the beach. There's no wifi in the unit. I tried. I missed blogging yesterday because of it. But I'm at the information center, using one of the resort's many available terminals. Can't tell you when the next update will be. We're home again Monday night.

The weather is awesome. The children swam last night and again this morning. Dave bought the girls floaties that they can sit in and remain upright and they have come-alongs so we're fine. Zeke, having had some gym 'n swim experience, is pretty darn good on his own, with just a little inner tube to help out. Because the weather is wonderful, we have the whole indoor pool to ourselves most of the time. And then, apres swim, they swim again in the jetted tub in the master suite.

Mom and I went to the outlet mall shopping today. I knew I wanted to visit the Skecher's store for the girls [love the shoes for them!] and clothing for all the kids [Oshkosh B'Gosh has some great items, especially at 70% off.] I got a couple summer sweaters for me and we were done. I haven't shopped sans children in a long enough time that it went surprisingly fast. Mom's a good egg--holds the bags and mills around well--and she had nothing she needed. Zip-in. Zip-out. Done.

The kids are napping now and Mom and I are getting ready for 5 p.m. Mass. I'll post again when we get home to NC.

Robert P. Ashley, R.I.P.

A beloved college professor of mine died in November, 2006. Today, at Ripon College, they held a memorial service in his honor. I knew him well, having him as a professor and then as a landlord for a summer and my final semester of college. His daughter asked me to deliver a tribute to him. Because of travel and family obligations, I declined to be there in person, but I wrote the following tribute to Dr. Ashley which my sister Peggy delivered.

Dr. Ashley's reputation preceded him when I entered Ripon College in the fall of 1981. I'm the fourth of four children, all of whom attended Ripon College. All three of the Gero girls graduated from this esteemed institution; brother Paul enjoyed three years here and figured out that his degree would be in journalism from Marquette. My sister Mary had freshman English with Dr. Ashley just one year prior, in 1980, and that was the year that he became a widower. She spoke of him with respect and she spoke of Mrs. Ashley's passing in hushed tones. I believe that was the year that Dr. Ashley became Emeritus. And it was the year he began taking in roomers. Oh, not the whispered tales, but the students who would live at his home rent-free. The price of their keep was to clean his Watson Street home each week.

I knew of Dr. Ashley but only had the privilege of being his student once. I took his English novel course as a sophomore. For my money, that was the best bargain in all the curriculum----one night a week for three hours, earning 4 credits. My science friends would lament their several hours in lab for a measly credit and I knew we had it sweet. In that course, we learned of Dr. Ashley's love of the written word and also film. He was the authority on the novelist Wilkie Collins. As a consequence, I don't miss those Collins questions on Jeopardy.

I loved Ripon so much I stayed here year round. The library crew hired a few of us to work full-time during the summer, and if you could find a cheap place to stay, you could maximize the profit. My first summer, I lived in what was then called Hughes House. The next summer, I stayed with Dr. Ashley. You can learn a lot about a man by cleaning his house. Treasures of all kinds are hanging on the walls, or needing dusting on the shelves, or chilling in his freezer, or wagging their happy golden retriever tails. That was the summer that Dr. Ashley became known to me as "Da",the name his children called him. I once asked its origin and it was a shortening of "Dad." As I already had a father whom I loved, in my mind, "Da" became an acronym--D A--Dr. Ashley. I, too, took on a nickname with Da that summer. After taking a phone message for him and signing it with my initials---R A G-- from thenceforward, I was to him "Rag"....or my full official title: "Rag, the charwoman."

That summer I met most of his family as they visited and learned that he bestowed nicknames on darn near everyone from the Romans [Junie's bunch], to Arpy and Squish [Robert P. the Third and Jacqueline]. He would spend many an evening in that front study, reading books he'd read dozens of times before or enjoying new crime fiction and filling the home with the heavenly aroma of his pipe tobacco, petting Katie-dog and possibly plunking out a note or two on his ancient typewriter. He usually had a stash of ice cream in his freezer and I learned that he loved Sealtest Heavenly Hash ice cream. He never even offered to share that and in fact made sure my fridge was in the basement so I wouldn't be tempted.

He would stroll to the cinema once a week and often I would accompany him. He played tennis year round and made it a point to play mixed doubles with the best [and prettiest] young woman on the college team. He and Jerry Thompson played doubles and were dubbed "The Sexigenerians." Da turned 70 in April of '85 and I knew he hated losing that clever moniker. For his birthday present, I had a t-shirt made for him which read "Septuagenarian" on the front, and "But Still Sexy" on the back. I continued rooming at 504 Watson my senior year. He took on me as well as my mostly English major pals. We called ourselves his harem and he took us all out to dinner at graduation. I got to shovel show and walk the dog and paint my room. More than the free rent, however, I got to spend time with this wonderful man. He was a scholar who was always reading. He was the well educated Easterner who was no snob around us unassuming Midwesterners. He was the widower who loved his family. He was wry and funny and always had an opinion. You had to ask for it, but he always had it. He was, to me, the joy of wisdom and maturity.

I found my replacement and trained her as I went off to law school in Madison. Da used to tease me that Dianna got into and did much better at a tougher law school. He consoled me, however, with the observation that no one could clean his toilets like me. One summer, I clerked in Appleton and he was an "Attic Angel" at their theatre. He came for a visit and we had dinner and a show. There were several times he took me out to dinner in Madison, including one Valentine's Day when "the professor I lived with" was the better prospect to anything the law school had to offer. And he joined my family and dearest friends at my graduation party.

When I went off and joined the Army and met my husband, I felt it was important for my southern gentleman to see my haunts and lurks. Da was no stranger to the military, having been a colonel in the reserves and having taught at West Point. So he and my Citadel man got on famously---mostly making jokes at my expense. My life moved South and my visits with Da grew rare. But every Tax Day triggers a memory of his birthday. Most Christmases brought a letter and card from him. My mother often sent a package of fudge his way. My memories of Ripon are inextricably tied to Dr. Ashley. He was the rarest of adults. He could listen without judgment. He could disagree with great civility. He laughed often. He never stopped learning. He will be remembered fondly and sorely missed.

I learned of his passing near Christmas. To console myself, I found one of his books online and bought it, ostensibly for my young son to read in a few years. It's a juvenile novel all about a Civil War train caper and based on an actual event. It was even made into a Walt Disney movie. When the out-of-print treasure arrived from the used bookseller in the northeast, its yellowing pages crackled with a familiar smell. The dedication was simply "To Arpy." I held in my hands the tangible proof of his life well-lived--a book he wrote and dedicated to his only son.

Thank you, Da. Thanks for everything.

I am very grateful to Peggy for giving the tribute. Mom called on Peg's cell phone from the audience and I could hear that they laughed at all the right places. She did a great job and it was a fitting final time to recall a wonderful man.

51

Photo by Paul F. Gero, all rights reserved.



Today is the wedding anniversary of my parents. They were married 51 years ago. Last year, the whole family gathered to celebrate 50 years. This year, we are all in different places. Dad died July 3rd after a long illness. Mom spent the last 7 years of their married life providing care for him. She lived her vows "in sickness and in health." And she fulfilled her vow of "til death do us part." She hasn't stopped loving him.

Last year's gathering was bittersweet because we knew Dad was ill. But it was sweet to see them celebrate a milestone that is too rare these days. On the front porch of my girlhood home, Mom and Dad toasted their day from the family heirloom goblets--the same ones they toasted from on their wedding day in 1955. The same goblets that my husband and I toasted from at our wedding in 1990 [and all my siblings did, too, at their weddings.] These goblets were crafted for my great grandparents on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary. They are the family emblem of longevity in married life.

Fifty-one is also important because it is the year my father graduated from Rutgers University. He was a proud Joe College. He wore his college ring [emblazoned with Tau Kappa Epsilon on the stone] until the end. I believe my brother owns it now. When we were sassy, Dad would ask us if we wanted TKE written backwards on our forehead. It was an empty threat, but it usually stopped all the shenanigans. Dad always wore two gold rings for as long as I can ever remember.

So I recall these shiny things,
silver goblets, and golden rings.
Promises made. Promises kept.
Love was shared. Tears were wept.

First and Last

In blogging, the last thing posted in a month is the first thing you come to in the archives. Let me close out this July 2006 with a picture of my father, Robert B. Gero, who died on July 3rd, 2006. My brother took the picture in September 2005, on Dad and Mom's 50th wedding anniversary. He was watching the sunset from the front porch of the house where I spent my childhood.

I miss him.

Gifts of Love

Yesterday was my father's funeral. Today, his body is being buried in the upper peninsula of Michigan in the town of his birth in a plot adjacent to his parents' remains.

Yesterday we received many gifts. The service was dignified and lovely. My brother Paul and sister Peggy and Dave and I prepared eulogies for the time after Mass when it is customary to reflect on the life of the deceased. Paul, a brilliant photographer, shared in words a few snapshots of Dad that were seared into his mind. These images conveyed the fatherly-ness of Dad--from playing catch, to coaching baseball, to helping his adult son finish the last push of college and to avoid the regret of quitting. My sister, Peggy, who works for the State, but whose passion is the kennel where she raises champion Gordon Setters, told of Dad's love of learning and his avid reading and his stalwart work ethic wherein no labor is beneath you, even the allowance chore she had of picking up dog doo. As a kid, she was embarassed by this being the source of her income. As an adult, she continues this job, times ten. She shared her moments with him near the end and at the end and that Dad had a peaceful death.

Dave was prepared to talk about his instant rapport with Dad, who also served his country as an Infantry Lieutenant. Dave knew that Dad was a patriot and valued honor. They both shared their love of "his baby girl." The tears, which began flowing at Paul's talk, and continued with Peggy's talk, overcame Dave and he just could not give his talk. He handed it to Mom afterwards so she knew what he was going to say.

In our married life, I can count on one hand the times I've seen my husband cry. At those moments, there's something in me that completely shuts off my tear ducts. I don't know why, but it's always been the case. Neither of us puddle up at the same time, although, in fairness, Dave has millions more chances to restrain tears than I do. After that, I delivered my talk:

I want to tell you about my the faith of my father.

When he was a little boy, his father died and it was the Depression. He would spend a lot of time with his grandparents in Michigan. His grandmother was an organist for her church. He would tag along with his grandmother on Saturdays when she would rehearse in the empty church. Dad would lie on his back and look up at the altar. It read "God is Love." He told me he knew it was true.

As a young man,someone told him "You don’t send your children to church. You take them." Thatmade a big impression on him long before he was a husband or father.

When Dad courted Mom, he was not Catholic. When they were married, back in the good old days of Latin Mass, and communion rails, the NON-Catholic groom had to promise to be open to children and to raise them in the faith. That was part of the deal. Not just that he wouldn’t impede their faithful upbringing, but that he would see to it that they were raised in the faith. He gave his word and he fulfilled his word.

I am the youngest of his children. I’m told that Mom would take to Mass those who could behave and Dad would stay behind with those who were too young to sit through Mass. I’m told that as a little girl of about 4, I asked Dad if we could please go to Mass with the others. He did. Every Sunday. For my whole memory, Dad was always there with us at Mass. Through the years, he participated more and more in the Mass. About the time of my First Communion, I asked him why he didn’t receive Communion. He told me simply, "I’m not Catholic."

As a teen, I was preparing for Confirmation. Like many adolescents who know a whole lot more than their parents, I was uncertain whether I wanted to make the big commitment that Confirmation entailed. I wondered if I could promise to be a Catholic for the rest of my life. He understood my doubt and he was very patient and kind. He made it O.K. to challenge and question my faith, so as to finally embrace my faith. I knew that even if Mom would be upset, he would back me up if I wanted to not be confirmed.

Very few people know that Dad’s morning routine was an early morning exercise, followed by scripture. He read a chapter of the Bible almost every morning. And he read it in 4 different versions in his concordance Bible. He looked at his faith as an intellectual pursuit.

I always believed that if I married someone like my dad, I’d be doing good. I married a non-Catholic and as I really began to embrace my faith as an adult, it began to bother me that my husband wasn’t Catholic. I asked him about it. In a brilliant stroke, he told me that when my dad converted, he would consider it. Let me tell you. I went about my Dad’s conversion with the evangelical zeal of St. Paul. Mom had been praying for Dad for over 40 years. Every little prayer for his conversion was a little piece of kindling on a pile. I pretty much got in Dad’s face and challenged him as to why he was not Catholic. Was it papal infallibility? No. Marian devotion? No. Confession? No. What was it, Dad? Turns out, he had doubt about the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. That pile of kindling? I threw lighter fluid on it. Father Bill invited Dad to become Catholic and he lit the match.

My birthday is the day before Mom and Dad’s anniversary. Eight years ago, they called to wish me a happy birthday and then he sheepishly told me that the next day, he would be making his First Confession and First Holy Communion in a private Mass...just Dad, Mom and Father Bill. I was overjoyed for him. I demanded "When were you going to tell me this?" He said, "I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to start bugging David."

Dad’s conversion was completed a couple months later when he was Confirmed. The bishop was making his annual visit and Dad, a white-haired man well in his 60s, was confirmed with all the teenagers. He showed me then that IT IS NEVER TOO LATE.

A brief while later, he had his stroke and that intellectual faith, that newly found faith, that faith that was manifest in the prayers and devotion of his wife changed to a child-like faith overnight. Throughout this last phase of his life, I saw the fulfillment of God’s promises to believers. God is love. God pursues us like a Good Shepherd. He loves us where we are and he takes us as we are. He doesn’t just send us to church. He meets us in church.

Dad believed that God is Love. He loved his wife, who prayed for his conversion. I believe Dad’s years as a Catholic onlooker and later as a Catholic in full communion, is a testament to the Sacrament of Marriage. For decades, Marriage was the Sacrament that sustained his faith. In his final days, he was blessed with the Sacraments of Anointing of the Sick and his final morsel of food he ever consumed was the Eucharist. Food for his journey onward to Heaven.

For me, the greatest gift of love was being surrounded by my wonderful family, but especially for the gifts of my friends from ages past, being there. My maid of honor just happened to be in town, up from Florida, with her little girl. My matron of honor adjusted a very busy family schedule and drove several hours from the Twin Cities to be there. My last local non-sibling bridesmaid and her husband [incidentally, my first boyfriend in 6th grade] both took off work and came. All of us shared the afternoon together, poolside at the hotel, while the children swam, making plans and solving all the worlds' problems. Last night, we went to my sister's house and went to the local Lake Days festival and heard a really good band play until midnight. We retired, slept in and prepare to fly home today.

There are three little redheads whom I've missed.

Robert B. Gero, R.I.P.

My father died on July 3, 2006, at 11:15 p.m. in Columbus, Wisconsin, after several years with Alzheimer's disease. He was 77 years old. He is survived by his wife of over 50 years, Anne, and four children and six grandchildren.

My sister, Peggy, was with him at the end. His departure was quite peaceful. I'm on my way to Wisconsin later today. I'm taking my laptop and my hotel room has free wi-fi. I tend to process major things in my life through this blog, so I believe this will be no different.

The requiem prayer we say in the Roman Catholic Church goes like this:

Eternal rest grant unto him.
And let perpetual light shine upon him.

May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

My brother has more on his blog as well.

People I Love and the Blogs They Should Write

Now that I've taken the blogging plunge, I suspect I'll nudge or nag the people I love to do the same. My oldest sister, Peggy, has had her own webpage for years. She's an expert on breeding, raising and showing Gordon Setters and has a few champions in her kennels. Peggy should write a blog. She travels extensively and at least we could all keep up with what show she's at when.

My brother, Paul, is an accomplished photographer with massive experience in photojournalism. He recently wrote his first book "Digital Wedding Photography". He's one of the most keen observers of life and one of the easiest-to-talk-to non-judgmental people there is. We often joke that he has a face that says to total strangers "Tell me your life story".

My sister, Mary, is an Independent Future Executive Senior Sales Director with Mary Kay Cosmetics. She, too, has a website. She and her husband are raising two beautiful children and doing a mighty fine job of it. She has recently become one of my best girlfriends. [It's sad, but we spent the first three decades of our lives fighting each other and probably making a lot of people miserable in the process. ] Mary knows a WHOLE lot about how to teach and train salepeople, be a cool mom and endure those long Wisconsin winters. Unlike John F. Kerry, she not only knows how to pronounce "Lambeau Field", she and her husband actually own a piece of it.

My mom has a lot of wisdom to share, but you practically have to jack-hammer it out of her. She, too, recently became a girlfriend of mine. When Dave and I had the girls, we needed a lot of extra help. She and Dad had many extended visits to North Carolina, during which I got reacquainted with mom. They celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary this year. Dad had a stroke 5 years ago and was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Mom should blog that experience.

Finally, my beloved, wonderful husband David is perhaps the kindest, most generous soul to grace the earth. He is a wonderful father to the three little redheads who can't be denied. He should write a blog about how to get along with me.

UPDATE: Cleaned up the links. My brother "wrote" not "published" his first book. My sister is a "Future Executive Senior" sales director, not a "Senior" sales director.