Lessons I Learned (or Should Have Learned) from Donna Auger

This past week was a difficult one for me, as I had to help my best friend say goodbye to his mother. Since I had spent about half of my childhood in the Auger household – playdates started at the age of 2 or 3 – I found that I too was in need of some consolation.

If you didn't have the distinct pleasure / opportunity / experience of meeting Donna Fay Auger, to say she was a one of a kind would be an understatement.

Jim and Donne had 3 kids. Their middle child, Anthony, has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. As a kid – a young kid – you rarely get to pick your friends for yourself. Instead, you get thrown into a Lego-filled cell with some random drooler whose mother was kind enough to watch you for a little while your mom took a much needed break. Or otherwise your mom just wanted to hang out with her friend for a little bit, SO FOR JUST ONE HOUR COULD YOU NOT HIT HER SON OR CHOKE ON A LEGO PIECE?! 

I think my own scenario was some combination of those two, but regardless, I've always considered myself lucky that my parents set me up on playdates with a kid I could hang out with for some 27 years and counting.

However, it wasn't until Mrs. Auger's memorial service – as a small multitude of people came forward to share how she had impacted their lives – that I realized more fully how lucky I truly was that my parents routinely entrusted me to the Augers' care. Or, more accurately: how lucky I was to be adopted into their family.

I could go on for a long time about how Mrs. Auger (force)fed me, or how she picked me up from church/school/younameit when my own parents forgot me, or how she graciously traded me (and other kids) an hour in front of the TV playing video games for an hour in the garden pulling weeds. But I don't have the energy or real desire to do that. Instead, I’ll just say that what I do remember most is her beautiful smile and her infectious laughter. Both of which she could exchange IN AN INSTANT for that ominous look and that incriminating finger point if you were disobedient or disrespectful. She was nearly constantly cooking and gardening. Apart from occasional breaks to dole out some well-deserved punishment, her main escape was fishing. It really didn't matter which she was doing though – she was excellent at all of those things.

One other fact that sticks out in my memory is that I wasn't the only guest being fed / housed / clothed at the Auger's. Mrs. Auger nearly always had some neighborhood kid or friend or family member seated at the kitchen table, eating some delicious leftovers (my personal favorite was her broccoli casserole), as they talked about everything and nothing.

But it wasn't until I heard everyone else share their stories that I realized Mrs. Auger was more than just my friend's mom, or even my own mom's friend. She was certainly those things too, but she was, I think, someone who had a fierce love for those in need. It didn't matter if you were 8 or 80. If you entered her orbit, she was going to love on you and feed you. And possibly lecture you about respecting your elders, but maybe that was just me.

So, when I reflect back on what I know of Donna Fay Auger – from dinners, road trips, sleepovers, scoldings, hugs, lunches, laughs, and ALL the smiles – I realize that all along she had been teaching me – teaching us – what it really means to be a part of a family, part of a community. And if, like me, you were lucky enough to be adopted into Donna's and the Auger's family, you know that you have been blessed, indeed.

The Auger Family, ca. 1987.

Happy Birthday, Bro.

Andrew James Kennedy: husband, craftsman, brother, athlete, drummer, toastmaster, daddy par excellence.

There are a lot of things you could say about Andrew, some of them positive (creative, generous, Today Show’s Top 3 Hottest Dads with facial hair), some of them less than positive (scatter-brained, forgetful, still can’t play “Celebrity” by the goddam rules). But everyone – without exception – loves Andrew and is impacted by his laid back demeanor and unwavering loyalty.

My earliest memories of Andrew center on him stealing all the attention, something which he did often during our childhood. Again, sometimes this was a good thing – like when my sisters FINALLY stopped dressing me up like doll and shifted their attention and efforts to Andrew. And sometimes it was a bummer – like when he made out with my 10th grade crush before I did (note: he was 12 at the time).

Things Andrew and I got in trouble for:

• Arguing (constantly)
• Cutting holes in the trampoline with our brand new pocket knives (only once... our stupidity had its limits)
• Karate fighting on and off the trampoline
• Bickering for hours over who had to wash vs. rinse the dishes after dinner
• Fighting over shotgun in any vehicle, ever
• Terrorizing our poor cat, Smoker, who ultimately fled the house
• Picking our own / each other’s nose during family photos (see evidence below)

With four older sisters and one younger, Andrew and I were raised as a package deal. That is, the family pecking read: Rachel, Hannah, Sarah, Ruth, the boys, and Beth. We played sports together, went to friends’ sleepovers together, were even forced to move into the dollhouse in the backyard together (story for another time). I guess this time spent together probably contributed to our butting heads so frequently, especially since we have totally opposite personality types. But it ultimately had the effect of bonding us together, since that was really our only chance of survival in a house with so many sisters. (Kinda kidding: they were actually really great too, as far as sisters go.)

In a lot of ways though, Andrew’s been an older brother to me more than I’ve been to him. Always a calm and unworried person, he has been the one to listen to my panicked and dramatic stories and remind me to “chill out; it’s going to be fine!” And he’s been right every time.

Now, he’s married with two beautiful kids, and he has somehow managed to maintain a full head of hair through it all, a feat which I personally was unable to accomplish. Andrew turns 27 today. This week alone, I have week watched him slay the drums at a small rock show, laugh and play with his kids, gently discipline them when needed, and craft some truly beautiful leather goods as he works towards launching his own brand (Leroy – keep an eye out for it!). He’s still scatter-brained at times – he remembered both kids, but forgot the food for Christmas Eve dinner. But he’s also just as steady and hilarious as ever. And for that reason among many, I hope you have the best birthday ever, Andrew. Thanks for keeping me sane all those years, and for taking the blame for all those knife marks around the house. These past 27 years haven’t had a single dull moment.

But I’m still calling dibs on shotgun.

Early photo of Andrew and me, capturing a rare non-combat moment for us.  Andrew really digging his Canadian roots (socks + sandals).

Andrew (far right) was typically the best dressed in all our family photos -- still true today.  I (barely visible, in the middle) still haven't figured out which is my good side.

Andrew and I at an airshow with Grandpa, getting photobomb'd by some guys's backside and by a kid who looks to be stuck somewhere near "homo erectus" in the evolution of man. 

Andrew's "rebellious" stage, resulting in an in-school suspension for this Ronald McDonald 'do (his actual hair -- not a wig).

Present day Andrew with his beautiful family.  Much less Ronald McDonaldy.

Trash Day

When a household contains enough people to field a complete 5-on-5 basketball game, you have enough worker bees to divide and conquer chores. And that’s what my parents did for us, their 7 children. Some of the chores were on a regular rotation – like cleaning bathrooms and washing dishes in the kitchen[i] – while other chores had specific owners.

For as long as I can remember, taking out the trash out every Monday and Thursday night was my responsibility, and mine alone.

You’re probably thinking that I got off the hook pretty easy. I mean, out of all the household chores, surely trash duty couldn’t be too bad, right? But if you consider that there were 7 kids (5 of them girls), 2 parents, and 1 (prune-loving) World War II veteran living under the same roof, you can imagine that the trash accumulated in between collection days was 1) monumental in volume and 2) pretty gross. Plus, all of this went into large trash buckets that a scrawny 9 year old me was supposed to drag across our lawn to the street corner, which was difficult since I didn’t hit my growth spurt til I was… 22 maybe? Regardless, the trash cans dwarfed me, and it was all-too-common that a one would topple sideways during the journey across the yard, spilling its foul contents onto our “yard,” which comprised a plot of sandy dirt, interrupted sporadically by patches of weeds. And it should go without saying that collecting the trash a second time, this time in the darkness of our front yard, never helped foster the cheerful attitude with which my parents had always hoped I would execute my chores. But I digress.

While everyone had a vested interest in seeing the trash cans make it to the street corner, Grandpa seemed to care the most. And fair enough, if you survived World War II, you deserve to live in a house where the “goddamn trash” gets taken out to the street on the appropriate nights of the week. No arguments there. But it was apparently SO important to him that I received frequent threats to have the trash dumped in my bed if it didn’t make it out to the street before the garbage men came by in the morning.[ii] 

Besides threatening to dump the trash in my bed, Grandpa was also known to shuffle to / from the bathroom in the middle of the night wearing only his ancient, threadbare underwear, which seemed to imbibe Grandpa’s tenacity and selfsame refusal to give up or quit. But again, if you survived World War II, you’ve earned the right to stumble around your home in nothing but your ancient, threadbare underwear. That’s your prerogative. Although sometimes it’s a shock to your half-awake grandkids to see your figure lumber through the dark hallway towards the bathroom.

What’s funny is that during these late night trips to the bathroom, Grandpa would often realize that I had forgotten the trash, that I had neglected my one and only duty. This is where Grandpa must have made several decisions very quickly. First, he wasn’t going to waste time dumping the trash in my bed, as previously advertised, but would rather take it out to the street himself. And second, he could do it quicker and unencumbered if he didn’t take the time to get dressed first, other than donning his stereotypical old person shoes (the ones with Velcro). And so that’s what he would do: he would drag the trash can(s) out to the street corner for me. Wearing just his ancient, threadbare underwear and his Velcro’s. In the middle of the night. All the time. (I was a forgetful 9 year old.)

What I never realized until just a few years ago is that my forgetfulness on trash night could have had unintended consequences, not for me, but for my sister.

The story goes that one of my sisters was out late with a boy (either sneaked out to see him, or was just out past curfew) on just such a fateful night.  Apparently, they were still in our family’s driveway when Grandpa surprised them (and half of the neighborhood), emerging from the house in his iconic underwear and Velcro’s, and began dragging the trash down the driveway towards the street.  And I can totally imagine exactly how this went down:

The floodlight shown down onto the patio, catching Grandpa’s more prominent features (i.e. his eyebrows), casting some extra ominous shadows across his face.  The same light must have also made his ancient, threadbare underwear and pale thighs glow supernaturally – a terrifying site for anyone, let alone a couple of kids out past curfew.  My sister and that boy had to be petrified when they saw my grandfather come out of the house, frozen with horror as Grandpa dragged the trash cans towards them.  She says that Grandpa didn’t freak out, he didn’t yell at them, and to the best of my knowledge the occurrence was never even mentioned to my parents.  He merely acknowledged their presence with a stern grunt of disapproval and continued marching his trash cans to the street corner.  When the task was complete, grandpa disappeared back into the house without saying a word to anyone.

My sister claims that was the last time she ever sneaked out of the house, and I would be not at all surprised if the experience was sufficiently traumatizing to accomplish exactly that.

But the real reason I love this story is that it serves as tangible proof of what Grandpa did FOR me and did not do TO me. Each year represented 100+ trash nights, and I owned the chore for 5+ years while Grandpa remained with us. It’s probably a conservative estimate to say that I missed 1/4 of those nights, but Grandpa never once made good on his threat to dump the forgotten trash in my bed, and instead always took it upon himself to take drag the buckets out to the street in my place when I had forgotten to do my part. It was exactly the kind of thing that someone like Grandpa should never HAVE to do, and yet it was exactly the kind of thing he DID do. Week in and week out. Whenever it was needed. Which was all the time.

Thanks again, Grandpa.

---

[i] When asked why our family didn’t own a dishwasher, my dad would often reply (only half joking): “Buy a dishwasher?  Why would I buy a dishwasher when I already have 7 of them??”  Still makes me laugh, Dad.

[ii] I made the mistake of sharing that experience in class one time when the teacher asked for an example of “when someone has yelled at or threatened you?”  Judging by the look of shock and horror on Ms. Roth’s face, I think my parents had to do some explaining on that one…

Happy Birthday to Me

Today I'm celebrating my 28th birthday, which is roughly 26 more than I should've had (see first blog post: Left Out). That not withstanding, I wanted to take a few moments to reflect on life so far, since I'm somewhere between a mid- and a quarter-life crisis.

And really, the only thing worth mentioning is my family. I think I can honestly say that they're the reason I've survived life this far, and that I've become the person I am today: an overly nice, moderately attractive, mostly nerdy engineer with a burrito fetish.

Any time I perform an act of kindness (not necessarily a regular occurrence), or make a funny joke (also seldom), or neglect to pick my nose in public, or even remember to flush the toilet... You can thank my family for setting a good example (kindness and jokes) or for belittling me until I shed those bad habits (nose picking and not flushing). In all humility, my parents, siblings, in-laws, and cousins represent the some of the most talented, creative, loving, funny, forgiving [and more gushiness ad infinitum] people I've ever met. These are the people I love most in the world, and despite our various forms of dysfunction, individually and collectively, I couldn't be more proud to call them mine. They're my favorite thing about me.

So on today, my 28th birthday, I want to recognize my family and their (mostly positive) influence on my life. Thanks for not voting me out of the family a long time ago, even though I USED to be real annoying. Love you guys so much.

Kennedy family, circa 1994.  Impossible to tell if summer or winter based on clothes.  Impossible to tell any one of us would turn out to be productive members of society.  Except Andrew and his Super Soaker 2000.

Kennedy family, circa 2011.  Proof that all of us turned out alright, although Ruth seemingly had the highest hill to climb, judging from the Lee sweatshirt pictured above.

Father's Day

Wishing dads everywhere a very happy Father's Day, and thanking my own Dad for his love and support over the years.  He's far and away the manliest man I know, and he's the only person I have seen who makes even sewing look like a burly activity.

Lots of love and respect for you, Pops.  Thanks for taking it easy on me that one time in 7th grade when I accidentally killed the baby chicken that you had adopted as a pet for our family.

Dad on one of the road trips he made to Alaska in high school / college?

Dad sewing up some belt-looking thing, raising a child, and making Amish men everywhere feel slightly inadequate.  All at the same time.  With one hand.

Dad at an art show, plying his trade, rocking some fresh sandals.

Dad laughing at one of his own jokes (presumably).  Me, asleep on his lap, unaware that beards and chest hair could be contagious.

A Memorial Day Interview with Grandpa

Remembering my Grandpa today as a WWII veteran who served as a bombardier, flying numerous missions over Italy and Tinian in the Marianas.  While Grandpa often encouraged us to watch the History Channel to learn about WWII, he almost never spoke personally of the five years he spent fighting the war.  The attached transcript is an interview my sister Ruth conducted with him as a project for school, and it represents the only words I have ever seen or heard from him on the subject.  I can still hear his stern voice asking me to remove my hat during the National Anthem at my little league games.  It is always a struggle to choke back tears whenever I hear it now, and I'll admit that I've been less successful fighting them back while writing this post.

I wish I could have had the capacity as a child to understand a fraction of what you endured (I know that I still can't fathom it even now), so I could've said, "thank you."  I'll offer it now in your absence, though it seems like vain echoes through empty halls.  I only hope that you're there, somewhere in the quietness and the shadows, able to finally hear it.

Thank you, Grandpa.

James Leroy Kennedy.

RUTH: Where did you serve in WWII?

JIM KENNEDY: Well, I was in the fifteenth air force in Italy, and I was there from January of 1944 until October of that year. Then I came back and went in the B-29 airplane; then I went to Tinian in the Marianas. I got there in May or June of 1945-- right after the war in Europe ended. I was only there a short time because the war ended there with the dropping of the atom bomb.

RUTH: What was your prewar training?

JIM KENNEDY: I was a bombardier on heavy bombers, in B-24's in Italy and B-29's in the Marianas and Tinian.

RUTH: Were you involved in active combat?

JIM KENNEDY: Oh yes, very much so. We had fierce combat-- not so much when I got to the Marianas, there was some, but the combat in Italy was pretty fierce ... yeah, pretty fierce. We lost our share of people and airplanes over there, even at that late date.

RUTH: Were you wounded?

JIM KENNEDY: No, unless you want to count being scared half to death (laughing). No, I didn't.

RUTH: What about people around you?

JIM KENNEDY: Not in my crew, though we lost lots of airplanes. One of my good friends in an airplane right next to us got the front half of his foot shot off.  We had our share of casualties. But my crew, we lucked out.

RUTH: How old were you at the Time?

JIM KENNEDY: Well, let's see ... I was only sixteen years old when I joined the Illinois National Guard. In 1944, I was twenty-two when I entered the war. I was born in '22.

RUTH: How did your attitude change as a result of the war?

JIM KENNEDY: It has to have some effect, like today I get furious when I see people starting wars. And I say, ''Don't you realize how terrible they are?" The worse thing about- well, I just can't say enough about how terrible wars are to the people who have to fight them, not to the people who start them. No, they suffer nothing. Hitler and Mussolini and all the rest of them-- they lived a nice, big, fat life. But there's an intellect right at the beginning of the war in Europe. It started with Germany taking over Poland. Even the combat airmen-- they had no argument with these people. But they would see these poor refugees escaping from these towns that had been bombed, and they would go down with their fighter planes and strafe these people and kill them. Nobody who's never been there realizes how horrible war is and that it should be avoided all costs. We don't need it.

RUTH: What type of weapons did you use in your units?

JIM KENNEDY: Mine was a bomb sight that I dropped bombs from, and we had fifty caliber machine guns on the plane. Towards the end we had some 20 mm cannons, but mostly fifty caliber machine guns.

RUTH: How did you feel when you learned about defeats and victories?

JIM KENNEDY: Well, not all that elated; just, "Thank heavens it's over" because it was hard. There was a sadness there because it should never have been. What do you celebrate? What about the poor people who couldn't celebrate? They're long dead. So it was a mixed bag. Sure we were glad to get out of it and get back to our home life. I'd been in the army almost five years by then, and certainly I was happy to get out of it. There was a still sadness there-- I had good friends there that I went to high school with who were brought back later on. So there was not that much elation, no.

RUTH: How did you adapt to life after the war?

JIM KENNEDY: There was not really much... I suppose maybe we celebrated a little too much. But it was a few years before we got over the shortages. A lot of people wanted to get married and buy cars; there were no cars for sale. General Motors, Ford, and Chevy hadn't gotten back into building cars yet. They were still at a war time economy. So it was sort of a mixed bag when we first got back. Everybody said, ''Well jeepers!" (laughs)  It took a little doing to get used to the peacetime. It wasn't that simple.

RUTH: Did you have any immediate family that you left behind-- you weren't married, right?

JIM KENNEDY: Oh no. I got married shortly after I got out. To your Grandma in December of 1945, right after I got out of the service. I had a brother that was in the Marine corps. That was my only other immediate family

RUTH: Is there any thing else you would like to add?

JIM KENNEDY: Most of the horrors of war, they don't bother me. I don't wake up screaming or any thing at night. But I look back and I remember how, other than our own casualties and our own fighting, there was a total collapse of the economy in these countries that we were in. Like Italy, in 1944-- you know how we have government and we have people taking care of it--there was nothing. The people were just out on their own. There was no control over anything, no industry, there was nothing. They were just there. They had no jobs. It was sad. You say to yourself, "Why are these people doing this? What do they hope to achieve by starting these stupid wars?" Those feelings have never left me. And they shouldn't. Everybody should be aware of it, even the little words. I was stationed on Tinian. I will say this: I was in 504th group and the 509th dropped the bomb. They were right next to us. They dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. And we were right there because we were neighbors--we would play ball together and everything. We didn't hear about it for a couple of days. Everybody in the States heard about it. Of course there wasn't the rapid news coverage that we have now. If something happened, it would take two or three days to travel around the world. Now we get instant news. On TV we see pictures of things that happened today. People say, "Oh that was a terrible thing to do," but at least it ended the war. You know, we've never had any major wars since. Good Lord, God almighty help us if we did! With the weapons that we have, it would be the end of the world. So it has been a deterrent, I guess.

RUTH: So you were in favor of the atomic bomb?

JIM KENNEDY: Oh, yes, definitely. Sure it was a horrible thing to do; there were a lot of noncombatants that died in the war-- there were children. No, nobody can say it was wrong. You've got to have some compassion for the people, but it saved many more lives than it cost. If we would have had to invade Japan, there would have been no other way to conquer that country. Everybody knows that. The casualty would have been much, much greater. It would make the casualties at Hiroshima and Nagasaki seem like nothing.

Mother's Day

[Quick disclaimer: I wrote this post a couple of weeks ago, when it was ACTUALLY Mother's Day, but had to postpone posting it until I could dig through the family photo vault.  While I'm not a particularly perfect child, I'm not so bad as to wish my mother a happy Mother's Day weeks after the fact.]

In the spirit of mother’s day, I was reflecting on my own nurturing mother and my years spent in her care.  And admittedly I’m still there—in her care—no matter how much I try to pretend that being a bearded and bald adult somehow puts me beyond the need for her loving affection, but that’s probably a whole separate blog post and/or visit to the psychiatrist.

Mom had to play a lot of roles over the years—nurse, teacher, principal, cop, WWF referee, chauffeur, maid, chef—all of which she executed expertly, but none more so than her role as a mother.  When my youngest sibling finally left for college two years ago, it marked the first time in thirty-six years that my parents weren’t actively raising any kids.  THIRTY-SIX YEARS.  Of course there is now a small army of grand kids to dote on, but I think they’re happy to embrace the new role.

Out of the many talents Mom exhibited while transitioning between her various roles and responsibilities, it became apparent that bowling was a particular strength of hers.  I remember being lucky enough to tag along for a few of those smoke-filled evenings at the bowling alley, and being awestruck by my mother’s smooth skill and proficient aim.  In between her turns, I mostly contemplated the many risks of the emphysema I assumed would strike me at any moment.  (For the record, Mom didn’t smoke—at least not while I was looking—but that didn’t stop every other person in the alley from chain smoking.)   

A couple of years ago, our family thought it would really be “nice” to get everyone together and go bowling for mother’s day.  And so that what’s we did.  And now I am able to tell you from firsthand experience that there are few things in life—possibly there are none—more demoralizing than losing to your own mother in an athletic event, albeit bowling.  She hadn’t touched a bowling ball in over 3 years, and she successively bowled 128, 148, and 188 in three straight games, besting me in each one.  She’s basically a less vulgar, more graceful version of John Turturro’s character from The Big Lebowski: The Jesus.

Apparently everyone in Canada, where my mother grew up, does Duck Pin Bowling, which uses smaller pins and balls than conventional bowling here in the US.  Mom once explained to me that when she “moved to the States, bowling here was so much easier!”  Mom is also apparently supremely proficient in rubbing salt in wounds (but in a really nice way).

I’m tempted to draw some heavy-handed comparisons to bowling as a metaphor for life, to comment on my mother’s successes and shortcomings as a parent (mostly successes).  And they would be something about how even when you think you’ve done everything right, the pins necessarily don’t fall like you want… or to the contrary, that sometimes a ball destined for the gutter can make a late change of direction and get everything right.  But I won’t subject you, the reader, to that level of cheesiness.  I’ll instead simply admit that my mom is badass at bowling.

So while I continue my internet search for the right cocktail of performance enhancing drugs for next year’s Mother’s Day Bowling Royale, Mom remains the best bowler in the family, and the best mom I could’ve asked for.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.  Love you lots.  Your card is in the mail (seriously).

Mom cleaning up at the Shop (with a smile, as always).

Mom introducing me to cake on my 1st birthday!