Have A Ball.

Quinlan & Kelby Making Some Memories

It was difficult to watch TV in our house growing up. Not that we didn’t make valiant efforts. We did. Lots of valiant efforts. It’s just that Mom made it impossible to hear anything what with the constant banging of pots and pans and cupboard doors in the adjoining kitchen. Why we never put those little felt circles on those dang doors remains a mystery to me still to this day. Perhaps had we done that, I might not have missed Sam’s last sentimental words to the bar in that finale of “Cheers.” Surely, the climactic ending of “The Sixth Sense” wouldn’t have been so totally confusing without the background noise of clanging cookie sheets and the dishwasher (so, was Bruce Willis dead the whole time? Wah?). Perhaps that 4-part Nova documentary explaining the origins of our universe and the basics of life would’ve all made sense… Wait, I never watched shows like that.

Nonetheless, television in our house had the endless accompaniment of kitchen noises. Loud kitchen noises. And it’s impossible to hear those sounds today without thinking of her. Even in our own homes, our children learned to associate those culinary rattlings with visits from Grandma. Early one Sunday morning my sister was up alone dutifully making breakfast for her family while my mom was hundreds of miles away. The clanging and banging of her kitchen instruments awakened a toddler Carter who ran to his dad with an excited sparkle in his eye and knowingly proclaimed, “Grammie’s here!” He was sorely disappointed to find only his frazzled mother in her pajamas dishing up waffles. Those noises sure sounded like Grammie.

Mom was always making something. Frosting something else. Slicing some plate of deliciousness. The sounds of her symphony of kitchen utensils has become synonymous in my brain with hunger and created a Pavlovian craving for something fudgey or fried, or better yet, both.

Mom’s Life Lesson #5-Make Something Yummy and Make Some Memories.

That’s probably why my Christmas memories are all wrapped up in a little morsel of peanut butter goodness drenched in chocolate and packed on a paper plate. If you know Liz then you know the Peanut Butter Ball, for during the holidays, those two were inseparable. I have such fond memories of sitting up until two in the morning, hunkered down around her butcher-block table, talking incessantly, laughing uncontrollably (there may have been something about the late hour-sugar-coma that contributed to that), and rolling hundreds of peanut-buttery, sugared spheres. It was a holiday tradition. Well, that, and the 10 pounds we would all gain after enjoying the fruits of our labor.

Christmas won’t be the same without her this year. But I can make some balls, and remember. I’ll loudly bang around some pots and pans to get the full effect. And it will be like she’s right there with me.

Liz would love for you to carry on the tradition. So the famous recipe is HERE!! Enjoy. And Merry Christmas from Liz’s Girls.

Liz’s Peanut Butter Balls

½ Cup Softened Butter

1 Lb. Powered Sugar

2 Cups Peanut Butter

Stir well and add 3 Cups of Rice Krispies.

Roll into balls.

Melt 1/3 (scant) bar of paraffin with 6 oz Chocolate Chips and 8 oz Hershey Bar on low heat in double-boiler. Roll balls in chocolate until covered. Set in small confectionary cups.

Full Circle

Mom, Me and My Little People

I was a puker as a kid. Ear infections and the sniffles were for wussies. I went straight to the full-blown stomach-flu when I got sick. The kind of flu that laid me out helpless, begging for ice chips and requiring that I keep a small bucket within reaching distance at all times. The kind of flu that came on quick and thus meant that sometimes that bucket was not close enough, resulting in…well let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. And mom was always there. Cleaning it all up. Scrubbing the carpet. Sanitizing doorknobs with gallons of Lysol (a smell I still associate with those emesis-filled days). Wiping my little sweaty brow with a cool washcloth and washing my trusty blue vomit bowl for the upteenth time. It was thankless. And it was a window into my future.

For DNA is inescapable. And my girls are pukers. Shameless, full-on, without-warning, not-gonna-bother-with-a-simple-cold, stomach-flu-getters. I had it coming. All those times I laid on our velvety family room couch and called for my mother who would come only to hold my hair and rub my back while I heaved that latest attempt at a saltine cracker into that little blue bowl, meant I too would someday experience that precious joy of parenting. It was only fair.

So there was that time I found myself in the middle of a vomit-fest. One of my littlest people who was normally a blur of barefoot bouncing, incomprehensible babbling and crazy-making, was now just a little lump of sick. And I couldn’t keep up. I mean, what do you clean first? The screaming toddler with the remnants of last night’s pizza smashed deep into her hair? The blanket she’s now tangled in? The rug that has not escaped the fray? Or maybe my pajamas that have become the obvious casualty of my one-woman virus war? What do you do when your child does not yet have the requisite verbal skills to tell you she’s about to puke all over your new Ugg Slippers? How do you cope in your sleep-deprived state at 3 A.M. when the up-chuck won’t stop and she’s exhausted her last clean onesie?

Well, if you are me, you throw in the towel. Or rather, you cloak yourself with said towel like some sort of puke-shield, slump in a rocking chair, and clutch the boneless little frame of your diapered-daughter and wait for the next round. Because it will come. And you’re gonna have to wash that towel.

And then you call your mother.

“It won’t stop,” I whispered with my vomit-weary voice. “How can such a little person produce such copious amounts of puke? She could totally rival any post-homecoming college frat-house. I smell like old milk, and she’s…well, she looks like a drunk carnie who’s had one too many corndogs.”

“I know,” she would say trying to hide her satisfaction. “But this is just what moms do.”

And that’s when I learned Mom’s life lesson #4:

This is just what moms do.

And what is “this”? “This” is hugging your vomiting child. “This” is wiping buggers with your bare hands, sharing your last little piece of coveted chocolate cake, and surrendering sleep in place of worry. “This” is cheering like a rabid football fan for #2 in the toilet and leaving a full cart of groceries in the aisle as you escort the tantrum-throwing two-year old away from the canned goods. “This” is attaching an apparatus to your breasts like a jersey cow three times a workday so your baby gets “nature’s nutrients.” “This” is enthusiastically singing “You Are My Sunshine” off-key, and reading “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” for the gagillionth time. “This” is giving your whole heart in a way you never thought you could and then watching it scamper off to kindergarten without looking back.

My mom did all “this.” And I understand it now. I understand why she did it. She did it because she was a mom. And I now know that when you are a mom, you wear yourself out for the little people who take over your life. I now know that you donate your best days, your best efforts, and sometimes your best pair of shoes to those who could never understand what you’ve surrendered until they have children of their own.

And I know I could never really give back to her what she gave to me.

Except, at the end of her life, in one small way, I was able to repay the tiniest amount of my due. In those final days, cancer had ravaged her body and rendered her weak and weary of the suffering. And we found ourselves once again at opposite ends of that little blue bowl. And I as took it from her on my way to wash it out (and maybe spray some Lysol for good measure), she apologized. “I’m sorry you have to do this,” she said in a voice so soft I hardly recognized it anymore. “I’m sorry you have to sit here and clean up after me.”

“It’s okay, mom,” I said. “I’m a mom too, remember? And this is just what we do.”

Party Like It's Your Birthday

Mom and Me at My First Birthday Party

I was one cool kid. I mean, I had a sweet pageboy haircut, I was into the “theater-arts”, and I liked to use big words like “peruse” and “behoove” while meticulously detailing business plans with all my little eight-year-old friends. Ok. Maybe it’s a good thing I had a cool mom.

She made me cool long before I knew I could be. She knew how to throw a party and I became legendary for my birthdays. There was the “nerd-themed” party at which Erica Dunlop showed up in her girl scout uniform with her head-gear on…and won the costume contest hands-down. Then there was the “fifties” sock-hop at which we blared “Rock-Around-the-Clock” and mom taught us the hand-jive in our garage. {I was pretty-much born to hand-jive, baby.} There was the year she sent us out in teams to scout the neighbors’ homes for scavenger hunt goodies (“Good evening Ms. Jones. Might you have a calendar from 1982?”), and there were all those sleep-overs. Oh the sleep-overs, a total misnomer since we rarely slept, but for which she planned intricate games and then endured hours of girl-giggling and high-pitched screaming that would send even the dogs into the other room to escape the madness. She was a saint. A saint with a party-hat and streamers. A saint with a penchant for a good time.

And today is her birthday. A day she would most certainly use to celebrate. Which reminds me of. . .

Mom’s Life Lesson #3: There is Always a Good Reason for a Party

Never miss one. Show up. Or better yet, plan one yourself. It’ll be fun. Life is better when celebrated with a couple hundred of your closest friends. There will be good food there. And lots of it. Preferably a selection of morsels drenched in chocolate. You will not leave hungry. Promise.

Have a theme. Decorate as if you are competing in some sort of Lifetime Television Reality TV Show that will crown Hostess of the Year. Costumes are hilarious. Play games. Give prizes. Laugh a lot.

Stay late. Close the place down. Then go out for French Silk Pie afterwards or maybe a DQ Blizzard. One can never have enough dessert…or enough of a good time.

Mom was a good time wrapped in a flesh and bone package. She was the life of my party. And today, on her birthday, I raise my glass full of sparkling cider in tribute to her and vow to live life the way she did. Like it was one big reason to celebrate. Like I don’t have to get up early in the morning. Like she was still here with me to enjoy it...

Happy Birthday Mom. The party won’t be the same without you. But we’ll still have one. . .

Confessions of a Loser

Baby Liz in Her Summer Best, 1947

The long days of summer inevitably remind me of my mother. She loved this season. Probably because it meant she was off work, free to spend her days buried in her latest novel, sleeping in until noon, staying up to the wee hours of the morning, shuffling me to the local cabana, organizing some closet in need of meticulously-labeled Rubbermaid bins, and playing endless games of Uno and Crazy Eights.

Crazy Eights. A card game requiring more luck than skill, but one that I still absolutely Had. To. Win. Although my competitive nature would eventually serve me well in my future career, it caused me great angst as a seven year old during consecutive rounds of meaningless card games. Losing a hand meant I lost my mind and my afternoon deteriorated into fits of crying and irrational frustration. I would throw down my clown-clad fist of cards and scream, “That’s not FAIR!!!” Embarrassing. I know.

And what would Liz do? Certainly not enable my immature tirade with any empathy. Nope. She would fix the deck of our next hand to ensure I lost again. And again...until I stopped the ridiculous display of huffing and crying and stomping around (though I'm guessing I was pretty entertaining). But my summer streak as a Crazy Eights loser taught me:

Mom’s Life Lesson #2: Life is Not Fair.

She would tell me this every time I tried to make the fairness argument (yeah, it wasn’t limited to Crazy Eights). How many times I must’ve said, um, whined about that. And it never worked. Mom was quick to point out that life isn’t fair. The sooner I learned that, the happier I would be. Other people will get things I won’t, do things I can’t, go places I will not, win when they shouldn’t. Friends, grown-ups, and strangers alike will disappoint me, break promises, make bad choices. I cannot control what happens, but I can control my reaction to it. I have no guarantees except my own attitude.

Mom knew this to be true. And as if to prove her own point, she got cancer. The ultimate in unfair. But she met it with an attitude that buoyed her up, rallied her loved ones, impressed her doctors, and allowed her to survive with it longer than she should have. And though sometimes I miss her so much I’d like to stomp around, throw my frustrated fists in the air and scream (at nobody in particular) that it’s just not fair, I remember, I’m right. It’s not. But it’s not supposed to be. And mom would think it ridiculous that I dwell on it.

So I don’t. Instead, I think I'll play some Crazy Eights.

What She Taught Me...

That’s me. At one. And that’s her. My mom. Best mom ever, really. The woman who would teach me so many things. Important things. Things I couldn’t possibly know as I stood at her leisure-suited knee that day, but that I would soon find invaluable. Like how to stand up for myself. Like how to make peanut butter balls. Like how to clean the lint trap in my dryer and keep avocados from turning brown. Like how cute boys are cool in high school but the smart ones are hot in college, and the fact that leisure suits went out of style for good reason.

So on this Mother’s Day, the first one I’m spending without her, it seems only fitting that I pay tribute to her here. Share what I know because of her. Because she loved me enough to teach it to me. Because she loved me enough to let me learn them.

Mom’s Life Lesson #1: You Are Strong Enough to Handle Anything

She never told me this. She just proved it to me. It was subtle, and at times, frustrating. There was the time in third grade when I forgot my lunch and begged her (in my best pathetic voice) to bring it to me. I might die of starvation I thought. Might not make it through that grueling hour of P.E. without sustenance. Might not have the energy to trudge home lest I get a sandwich. But she wouldn’t relent. My lunch was my responsibility and if I forgot it, I needed to find a way to solve my own problem…or go hungry trying. Somehow I survived, and I never forgot my lunch again.

There was that time in high school when my first real boyfriend broke up with me. I really just wanted her sympathy. A little pity in a time of hurt. An embrace with an understanding ear while I wept on her shoulder. Instead, she told me this was my opportunity to “get back out there” and see what I’d “been missing.” She was right. There was more out there. And most of it wasn’t worth crying over.

Then there was her cancer. A mean, vicious breed of the disease that robbed her of more time here with us. And yet, once again, she demonstrated how to be strong. Strong enough to handle it. Strong enough to teach all who watched her what strength really meant.

I learned I was strong because she let me find that out for myself. She didn’t rescue me. Didn’t let me feel sorry for myself. She forced me to find my own strength. And all the while communicated without ever really saying so, that I am strong enough to handle anything. And then in the end, she served as the ultimate example.

So someday I can only hope that my girls will yearn for me to rescue them but will instead discover their best when I refuse. I can only hope that they will someday tell me that they are better because I proved they didn’t need me. She taught me well.

I am stronger because of her. Stronger because she loved me. And strong enough to handle this first Mother’s Day without her. But I wish I didn’t have to know that…

Happy Mother's Day Mom.

Unforgettable...

It was a perfect day. Blue sky. Sun shining. Family and friends gathering to remember an unforgettable person. Good food. Lots of laughing. Old friends reuniting to share memories. It was as if Liz planned it herself...
She pretty much did. And she would've loved it. Liz hoped her memorial would be a celebration of her life. And it was. She hoped the boys would tell funny stories. They did. She wanted everyone to eat well, stay and chat, enjoy each other. It was all that.
We can't be sure how many people attended, but the Stake Center was filled to capacity and the over 1000 peanut-butter-balls (Liz's signature treat) prepared for the guests were all quickly devoured. As her family, we were overwhelmed by the out-pouring of love and support. But we were not surprised...
For Liz gave everything to so many others, it is no shock they showed up in droves to give a little back. We laughed, we cried, we did both simultaneously. It was a special day.
The following is the poem Paige wrote and read at the memorial:

Her Part

Sometimes mere words are not enough
To say what's in the heart
For in our lives are people who
Just play a bigger part

She played the part of teacher
For all those who took the class
A clearer voice, the lisp was fixed
That stutter gone at last

She played the part of foodie
All fine restaurants she could find
Breakfast, lunch or dinner
Eating out was on her mind

She played the party-planner
No event too big or small
Weddings, birthdays, showers
If it's fun she'd do it all

She played the part of tour-guide
Just what do you want to do?
Museums, shopping, culture, sports
Then maybe hit the zoo?

She played the part of cherished friend
Who'd always lend an ear
To listen, comfort, laugh, advise
And silence any fear

She played the part of servant
His work done here on earth
Helping those around her
Understand how much they're worth

She played the part of grandma
Sharing stories, hugs and books
Passing down a legacy
Of love, of time, good looks...

To Him she is His daughter
Whose life stands tall and true
As the consummate example of
Just what we ought to do

But to me she is my mother
All these parts wrapped into one
A tour-guide, teacher, servant and
A friend second to none

Now my part is to follow
The clear path that she has set
And live a life with meaning
With intention, no regret

But more than all the parts she played
Was the whole she knew to be
Her sacrifice, her love, her heart
Those gifts I keep with me.

We love you mom. We miss you. We hope to live the life you wanted for us. May we always remember your example. May you remain unforgettable.

The View From Up Here...

Liz was always a chocolate-lover, a party-animal, and a marathon-conversationalist....but who knew she was also an adrenaline-junkie? During a summer trip to Hawaii with Mark and her good friends, the Neuenswanders, Liz strapped herself in, channeled her inner dare-devil, and went for the ride of her life as she zip-lined over the amazing island. It was beautiful. The view was stunning. And that Cancer-thing just didn't matter. The world looks different from above. Sharper. Greener. Bluer. More Peaceful.

And on Monday March 7, 2011, Liz's view changed again. While in the arms of her children, Liz moved on to a sharper, greener, bluer, more peaceful place. We feel her loss...but her influence is still all around us. {In fact, I can hear her editing this post as I type it.} People who love life the way Liz did never really leave us. People who love people the way Liz did are rare. We are better because we knew her. We are stronger because she loved us. We are buoyed by the fact that she would want us to buck up and move forward (trust me on this, I heard it many 'a time growing up). She would urge us to enjoy the view.

She would also want a party. So we are going to accommodate that (...though exactly who will plan it with Liz gone has been a source of much consternation...we'll do our best!). Join us to celebrate her life:

SATURDAY MARCH 12, 2011

NOON

THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS

1501 HILLCREST AVE.

LIVERMORE, CA

Luncheon to follow for ALL guests.

In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to any Cancer Foundation, the Educational Foundation, or any program that promotes child literacy.

Roller Coaster

{Liz, Heather, & Paige, Becky & Erin-pretending to pass out-on Tower of Terror}

I heard a writing professor once say that you should avoid cliches...like the plague. Good advice, except when they are applicable. And life has been a bit of a roller coaster for Liz lately. Lots of ups and downs. Figuratively and literally.

Nobody loves Disneyland more than Liz. And nobody loves going there without pesky children to beg for bathroom trips, call for cotton candy, and demand Dumbo more than this parent-of-the-year. Disneyland is best enjoyed by adults and that is exactly what Liz, Paige, Erin, and two very brave sisters-in-law, Becky and Heather did last summer.

It turns out the magic kingdom gives you some sweet perks when you have a grave disease. It was about time this dang cancer thing came in handy! We hit every attraction, multiple times (well, the GOOD ones...no Tiki Room for these veterans thank you very much), ate only the finest of Disney cuisine (including a meal at the exclusive Club 33 where even the loo looked like my grandmother's living room furniture), and lounged in luxury in our fabulous suite at the Grand Californian. It was magical. And I'm fairly certain I can never go back for fear another trip couldn't measure up.

So while we took in every crazy ride we could, Liz now finds herself on her own private roller coaster. The fluid that's been accumulating in her abdomen has been confirmed as cancerous. She has ceased chemotherapy and is seeking ways to feel good enough to spend time with family and friends. Some of the worst side-effects have subsided for the time-being which means she can enjoy a tasty meal and some good conversation...a real blessing. Erin has been hanging out for the week and Paige plans a trip back out in a few days. Hospice will come in soon to make sure she stays comfy and content at home.

Matching Sweatshirt Nerds {we made them}

It's Tough To Be A Bug

Life is a roller coaster. Liz can tell you all about the highs and lows. But there is opposition in all things. We would be bored if it were any different. Like a life without Disneyland.

Tell Me a Story...

Liz reading to a gaggle of grandkids during the 2010 Christmas festivities

A story of a grandma. A mother. A friend. A sister. A cancer fighter. A party planner.

You know her. And you haven't heard her story in a while. That's because she's had an amazing year. A year that is worth documenting. A year filled with family, and friends, and Disneyland, and Hawaii. A year's worth of activities and a lifetime worth of memories. Oh...do I have some stories to tell. And I will tell them. But not today.

Because today is filled with another tale. A tale of a fight. And you need to know how those winds of war are blowing. And Liz needs to know that we all still march behind her.

After an incredible year, Liz has hit a rough patch. She has valiantly endured multiple rounds of various chemotherapies. The cancer retreated...long enough to give her some valuable time doing the things she loves (again...more on that later...). But it's a formidable foe and she again finds herself in the trenches.

This week has been a real battle. Liz has made several recent trips to the ER to mitigate complications of a compromised liver. The most recent scans showed small but ever present tumors in her liver and now excess fluid is building in her abdomen. The resulting side effects are difficult to bear and make everyday activities daunting. Medications and the care of dedicated professionals are moderately helpful....but at its core, this is a solitary war.

Liz, as you probably guessed, is enduring like the warrior she is. Mark is at her side every step of the way like the the attentive partner he is. The family has rallied like the bunch of crazy people we are.

The next step is to definitively determine the cause of all the accumulating fluid. That will hopefully happen later this week. Hospice is an option in the near future to relieve the worst of the symptoms and allow her to remain at home so we all can sit by her side. Helping out. Hanging out. And, of course, telling stories...

Should you wish to contact Liz with your story, notes to her email at lizardhatch@gmail.com are frequently checked and you may send cards and letters to the home address at 2323 Stonebridge Rd. Livermore CA 94550. You can also leave your story here in the comment section....

Liz and Chloe with Santa on the Polar Express, Christmas 2010

And check back here for more stories.