A Lovely Lady Died Today

My Mother-in-Law grew up in a world ruled by men but raised two daughters who pushed well past those boundaries. Now there is a granddaughter and two great granddaughters who are pushing those barriers out even further. The tracks of our lives continue just as the seasons come and go. A great grandson was born one day. Great Grandma Charlotte died the next. The circle of life had come around again.

Charlotte Faye Schumacher left few trappings of success behind. The house had been sold, her possessions either given to the children or sold at an estate sale. Her material goods kept shrinking with each move from the farm to a house in town to an assisted living facility to a nursing home. Now there was nothing left but for a few mementos passed out to the grandchildren. Nothing left but for the memories…good memories of a life well-lived.

In the end this wonderful woman left the world a much better place through the four children she raised and nurtured into true citizens of the world. They are all good people who followed a legacy born amid those old Nebraska sand farms of the ‘30s and ‘40s.

Row 2, farthest Left in overalls

Charlotte with her Dad

Despite dealing with sometimes crippling anxiety and bouts of depression Sharon’s mom held on to her faith and worked through her issues. Her own mother had died when she was just nine years old and her father died when she was eighteen.

She once told Sharon “You wouldn’t understand what it’s like to lose a parent unless it happens to you. Denis understands.” Charlotte and I shared that commonality of a single parent household. It was a common bond seldom talked about, but understood. We also shared a deep and abiding love for her daughter.

Occasionally we’d talk about growing up without a mother as she followed her father picking berries in Oregon and operating a bar in Nebraska. We related to one another that way and spoke a language unspoken but understood among survivors.

When she graduated from high school in Nebraska, Charlotte taught in a one room school house. She had no formal training. She just took a test and began teaching. She told us her secret was to stay one book ahead of her class. It seemed to work.

Charlotte & Delbert Schumacher Wedding

Then she met a man who was to be her rock for more than sixty-five years. Sharon’s mom used to tell folks she didn’t know how to cook when she first got married. She didn’t mention it was the end of World War II and there were no stoves available. So every morning they had cereal for breakfast. For lunch they had a sandwich. In the evening they went to her Mother-In-Law's for dinner.

In 1957, she followed her husband from Nebraska to Wabasha, Minnesota. She moved there without ever seeing the farm Grandpa Delbert had bought. When Charlotte arrived she found there was no kitchen sink in the farmhouse, but ironically the barn was in excellent shape. I guess that’s what counted in a farm family.

Charlotte told people she never adjusted to living in Minnesota but all my kids can remember were the thrills of finding baby kittens in the barn, tractor rides with grandpa and calling for Shep and Brady, her two favorite farm dogs. It wasn’t ‘Dick and Jane on the farm’ - but it came darn close.

Late in their retirement years her husband developed Alzheimer’s disease. For over two years she cared for her husband at home, tending to his every need. When it was time for him to go into the nursing home, she faithfully visited him as often as she could. They went to mass there every Sunday. She did what she had to do for the man she truly cherished. I Sat Down with God Today.

Sharon and her parents, Charlotte & Delbert

It was her daughter, The Girl with Seven Suede Jackets, who used to tell me of her nurturing upbringing on the farm. Sharon has spoken often about high school class trips and weekend jaunts with her mother acting as her personal chauffeur. She talked about their special trip to England, just the two of them.

Later on in years Sharon took her own grandchildren down to see great grandma Charlotte before the end. At times it was witnessing courage in the face of crippling angst and anxiety. They learned as Sharon did about one generation respecting the next.

Now the only remaining thread in great grandma Charlotte’s life are the four lives she left behind. From them, the many grandchildren and great-grandchildren that are a part of her legacy.

A great grandson was born the day before Charlotte died. In time he will hear the tales of life on the Wabasha farm from his own grandmother. He will learn of its tradition of hard work and faith that is his legacy. And he’ll be able to thank great grandma Charlotte for those memories and lessons in life.

Her legacy lives on in her two daughters, a granddaughter and two great granddaughters born of that same steeled resolve. 

Maya Charlotte LaComb and Charlotte Jane McMahon never knew their great grandma Charlotte very well. But her sterling examples of hard work, perseverance, compassion and caring is a legacy they are sure to carry on.

Charlotte Faye Schumacher could not have wished for anything more.

Smelling the Barn

 At the end of an ultramarathon (one hundred miles or more) veterans have a saying to describe the rush of adrenaline they feel coming in the home stretch. It’s called ‘smelling the barn.’ I smelt the barn a couple of weeks ago but it wasn’t at the end of an ultra or Iron Man or even a plain old marathon. It was a simple one mile knee-jarring, breathless jaunt…chasing after two fleet-footed grandchildren.

After forty plus years of running I had resigned myself to a treadmill at the gym and an occasional trail run. Mountain climbing in Palm Springs didn’t count because I can pace myself there and fake looking out over the horizon if I needed to take a break and catch my breath. My old addiction to running had been replaced by a new passion for writing.

Now I was doing a one mile fun run with Brennan and Charlotte and they were out-pacing me every step of the way. It wasn’t the barn I smelled but rather my own chagrin at not preparing enough to outlast those two mini-gazelles. It was over before it even began.

Contrary to our agreement at the beginning of the race that we were going to go easy on Papa, both Brennan and Charlotte decided that this was no different than a playground sprint. Their competitive spirit kicked in and we/they were off to the races.

Competition runs deep in both the LaComb and the McMahon households. During the winter months, the Colorado kids have Black Diamonds for breakfast (defined as a very difficult ski slope based on length, width and gradient) and double-black diamonds for dessert. Maya, the eldest, already has two fourteeners (ascending a mountain over 14,000 feet in height) under her belt. The kids have been doing triathlons for several years now and been on soccer and gymnastics teams since they were tiny.

The Minnesota munchkins have begun doing triathlons also as well as short races the last couple of years. To put it in perspective, the Colorado twins are six and a half as is Brennan. Charlotte is four and a half. Maya comes in as senior at nine years old. When I was their age I was just learning to climb aboard my fifty pound Huffy cruiser and maneuver that boat around the neighborhood. I never engaged in group sports and didn’t start running until I was twenty-one. What is this younger generation coming to?

It must be a generational thing. Brian and Melanie both ran races when they were youngsters and engaged in other sports. Now this third generation seems to be picking up the pace. I couldn’t be prouder.

Truth to told, I just have to keep up with those youngsters.

 

I recently shared with my kids a desire to attempt the C2C (Cactus to Clouds) mountain hike next spring. I invited them to come along with me. Both kids politely but firmly pointed out that it’s one of the toughest climbs in the continental United States according to Backpacker magazine. They didn’t say it but strongly hinted that it’s not for the faint of heart or weak of knees. They didn’t say no. They just didn’t encourage me to do it.

No matter, if I think I’m in shape I’ll attempt it after my birthday in March. If a four-year old can run a mile flat out, her grandfather can certainly slug it up a mountainside. At least that’s the carrot I put dangling out there. Now if my breath is deep enough and the knees hold out I just may have a chance.

There’s tradition to uphold and all that…right?

Love Letter to Maryland

Davis' Pub - Eastport, Annapolis

Davis’ pub in Eastport, Annapolis reminds me of what the Bohemian Flats must have been like on the West Bank of Minneapolis back in the ‘40s.The pub has been around since the ‘40s and their clientele hasn’t changed much since then. There are the usual neighborhood relics, a few old watermen, the hangers-on and now the ever-present tourists drawn by concierges and travel blogs.

Like the watermen of old, Davis’ pub remains stuck in the past. Its walls are adorned with fading photographs of tall ships, wooden boats, log canoes and skipjacks. Across the street the intoxicating smell of seaweed, salt air and brine mix with the fresh varnish on a yacht anchored there.

 It was all coming back to me. The inner harbor of Baltimore before Freddy Gray’s shadow darkened its shoreline. My job in Owings Mills, our home in Reisterstown and weekend jaunts up to Westminster and around the state.

 

Many of my changes started there. From 1972 through 1977, I sold programming during the day, rode out West at night and toe-stepped the Chesapeake on weekends. Our family started there and real estate first began to pique my curiosity. It was a most audacious start to something great…the rest of my life.

This time around Sharon and I were only in town for a day or two before amtraking it up to New York City and several plays there. My return to Maryland brought back a lot of great memories.

Back then I had long harbored great fantasies of sailing the bay. A boat ride on our friend’s runabout brought back a rush of old mental images. The air is clearer on the water and there is a nautical language reserved for the fleet of foot and strong of stomach. My friend spoke of new moons and dark skies. He waxed on philosophically about the Orionids, the Leonids, North Taurids and Geminids; all meteor showers reserved for his patch of moonlit sky.

The houses seemed to have gotten bigger and the sea lanes more crowded since our last visit. But the inlets and bays were still nature’s nurseries. The Chesapeake Bay supports more than 2700 species of plants and animals, including 348 species of finfish and 173 species of shellfish. Approximately 284,000 acres of the Chesapeake Bay are tidal wetlands. 

The Bay and its tidal tributaries have 11,684 miles of shoreline, more than the entire United States West Coast. Estuarine science and research is relatively young. Only in the last several decades has there been a good understanding of estuaries and fisheries.

Back in the seventies MCPB (Maryland Center for Public Broadcast) was one of the best public television stations in the country. It was my Camelot for almost five years.

My job selling programming was a precursor to my own business ventures born several years later. Our home was the first of a number of real estate investments. Two western novels were written, edited and then shelved for almost forty years before my new career as a writer took off. It was in Maryland where I attempted the JFK Fifty Mile Race but only got twenty-four miles before hypothermia brought me down. That failure propelled me to a lifetime of running.

Our G.M. was a brilliant yet incredibly personable leader. He had an enormous influence on my fantasies of becoming a writer.

It’s come full circle now. Sailing the Chesapeake, revisiting old friends through the MCPB Facebook page and writing as my new moniker to carry. I’d like to believe it all began there when a young sprout came up from Tennessee to test the waters of fledgling television, tip-toed the bays and inlets and drew in the fresh ocean breezes.

It was nice to be home again…if only in my imagination.