Pie a Day Give Away

Seventeen years ago today I was with my sister Nancy in the intensive care unit at St. Vincent’s hospital in Manhattan. The previous day she had had a blood transfusion and it had proved to be too much for her poor body to handle and she suffered a heart attack. I was spending the summer in Montana and when I got the call I knew that I had to be there with her. It took hours to book a flight for the next morning. And as I drove to the airport with my year old son, I was crying so much that I missed my turn. That proved to be disastrous.

When I did arrive at the airport my plane was taking off. Through tears I tried to explain to the agent that I needed to get on the next plane. She calmly told me that I should come back the next day (did I say it was a very small airport?) When I told her that tomorrow might be too late, she was not moved. Not knowing what else to do, I retreated to a corner of the airport and sobbed.

The airport manager came to me and asked what was wrong and somehow I managed to explain what had happened. She then went over to the same agent and spoke to her, after which she told me that the agent would help me. I had my doubts, but went over to find the agent busily trying to figure out a way for me to get to NY that evening. She was speaking to someone on the phone when she asked me “And what is the name of the funeral home that you will you use?” Shocked I said, “But I am hoping that she won’t die!” She calmly nodded and explained that this was the ruse they were using to get my flight changed. I mentioned the name of the funeral home we had used for my Mother and she told that to the person on the other end of the phone. “What is their phone number?” she asked. I said, “I have no idea – but the area code is 718.” And then that agent who had been so unwilling to help me earlier, made up a phone number and told it to the agent on the phone. My flight would not get to NY until late that evening, but I would soon be on my way.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the day but I do recall that it was my Uncle Bill (Booey) that picked me up at the airport. We arrived at the hospital at about midnight and I was taken to the room where my sister was. She was in a coma and was hooked up to a respirator – but she was still with us.

The staff let me stay in the room seated next to Nancy. I was able to hold her hand and talk to her for a little while. It was only a few short hours later, around 3AM, when I awoke to the sound of alarms. I’d fallen asleep and did not know what had taken place. The nurse on duty came in and told me that she was going to turn off the alarms. It wasn’t until later that I realized that the alarms had sounded because my sister had died.

A short time later, the hospital chaplain came to the room and asked if we wanted him to pray with us. I did not know that there were people who did what he did. It was exactly what we needed at that time – someone to be with us as we let Nancy go. I was so grateful that, even without knowing us, the chaplain was able to give us comfort.

This morning I knew that I wanted to bring a pie to our own hospital chaplain in my sister’s honor but I was not sure how I would be able to find him. And then I remembered that our pastor knew him well and I could ask her for his contact information. When I arrived at church this morning to help an older parishioner with coffee hour I was surprised by an offer of help from someone in the parking lot. Imagine my surprise when Fred, our hospital chaplain, stepped out to help. When I asked him what he was doing there, he told me that he was filling in for our pastor this week.

As you may have guessed, it was pretty easy to figure out how to deliver a pie to Fred. I hope that he knows that the work that he does is incredibly important – and the people that he serves are grateful – even if they are not able to express their thanks at the time. As for me, it is days like this that make me think that this pie project has a life of its’ own and that I am so very lucky to be a part of it all.

Apple Blackberry Pie

While they were at Ashland High School, both of my children had Mark for a class called “studio art.”  My daughter, Alexandra, came into his class as a senior and tried painting for the first time.  It was after she had had difficulties in another art class and so Alexandra was not sure how this class would go.  Soon after the class began, she was painting in oils, and her first painting was entered into a “best of the best” competition.  She was thrilled to have had that experience!

My own high school art experience was not as special.  In my only art class in high school, I came away discouraged after being told by my art teacher that my drawings were “awful.”  The only way to avoid any further embarrassment was to stay away from art… for years.  How I wish I’d had a teacher that was as encouraging as Mark!

This afternoon, I brought an Apple Blackberry Pie to Mark.  It was to thank him for giving his students a tremendous gift each and every day: the freedom to create art that they can love and be proud of.

“He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”
― St. Francis of Assisi

An Apple Pie for Lauretta and Uwe in Berlin.

When I was a little girl, I heard a lot of things from the adults around me that didn’t serve me well.  This phrase was popular, “Good girls should be seen and not heard (wtf?).” And then there were a number of phrases that began, “Nice girls don’t ………… (fill in the blank)”.  For me, talking back was not acceptable… and if someone said something mean to me, I was not permitted to stand up for myself.  Often I heard about the troubles the other person was having (marital problems, etc.) and was asked to be compassionate.  I was taught to care for others, but not myself. I was a nice girl… and I became a nice woman.

Well, it’s taken a long time, but I’ve decided that I don’t want to be nice anymore.   Here is the definition of the word nice: pleasant, agreeable, satisfactory.  Who wants to be referred to as satisfactory?  What a wishy-washy word (wishy-washy is defined as feeble, lacking in strength or boldness)!  There are a host of words that I would prefer to be called rather than nice, including but not limited to the following: courageous, strong, compassionate, funny, determined, loving, reliable,  generous, spontaneous, intuitive, passionate, even crazy.   But please don’t call me “nice.”

A few years ago, when my ex told me about his affair, he thought my response would be “I’m so happy for you.”  Clearly, he thought I was that “nice”.  A few days later, he asked me to watch a movie, and I agreed.  But instead of sitting with him on the couch, I stood and ironed his shirts.  Was I being nice?  Not at all.  I was doing something I knew how to do as I tried to figure out what had happened to my world.

While I might have wanted to dump manure on his lawn, scream at him in public, or toss his stuff in the street, I didn’t.  I was trying to be mature, dignified, and I was learning to walk with grace.  Truly, being nice had nothing to do with it.

In closing, I acknowledge that this post is a bit of a departure for me… I’ve shared more here than I have in a while.  My hope is that in so doing, someone out there may feel more comfortable sharing their story or at least they’ll know that they’re not alone.

Pie prep in Berlin… using a wine bottle for a rolling pin!

“When you write your truth, it is a love offering to the world because it helps us feel braver and less alone.”  Glennon Doyle Melton

Happy 24th Anniversary in Heaven to my sister, Nancy.   I wrote about that day in this post… and about Nancy here so I won’t go over it again.  I want to say I was so lucky to know her… we shared many happy times and many silly jokes. I miss her more than I can say.

Nancy with her two biggest loves… Jimmy and Wayne.