I've been smiling to myself a lot in the last 2 days.
Most recently I smiled to have found my blog again- [inspired by my dear friend, doula, musician, writer and blogger, Heidi Howes http://heidihowes.wordpress.com/] and read my last entry, made just over a year ago, entitled "Grace".
Let me tell you about where I am right now. Sitting on cushions, drinking Jasmine Pearl tea at my favorite tea house in Madison http://machateahouse.com/machahome.html in a steel blue room with red curtains (any one who knows me well, knows that these are my favorite colors together- like the lake and blood) and a sign over the door that says "Grace."
I am overlooking Monroe St. at snow coming down at a steady pace. I used to walk this street on my way to grade school every day with my dad. I had to half-run to keep up with his long stride. I'd stop at the corner drug store to buy lemon heads for 10 cents as a young child, and then when I was a little older, would stop on the way home to see what sundry things were happening under "the bridge". Some of you may know what I'm referring to. First kisses come to mind.
Like a homing pigeon, I always seem to come back to this part of town, where I and my grandma grew up. In the same beautiful house on Adams Street.
My first 5 jobs were on this street. I met Sebastian's dad on this street. I almost got hit by a car on this street. I walked to Orange Tree with my best friends and bought stickers to trade on this street. Bought sweet clothes for my baby at Wild Child on this street. http://www.wildchildclothes.com/ And now, I find solace on this street. Alone with my thoughts and full heart. Was quiet, now people talking. Mucklucks sitting in the corner; reminding me of the Northwoods, my home now.
The place where my son is, my parents are, my best friend and my love are. Taking down Christmas trees, making fires in the wigwam, skiing, sharing meals, loving me over the miles.
My community. "My people" as we used to say at UU camp; the ones who make up your circle. My doula sisters. Amazing women and one man who choose to volunteer their time and give their hearts serving families as they birth their children. These doulas are on call for their clients, visit them in their homes, advocate for housing improvements, assist with breastfeeding, stay at the hospital with them while they birth, sometimes for days or go to stay in their homes and care for other children, cook, massage, listen to women as they prepare to or recover from birth. They take buses to visits if they don't have a car and sometimes get snowed in. They go to social service apts. and write birth stories and take photos and advocate and hold space.
This is what makes our community strong. We care for each other. We don't do it for money, we do it because it's the right thing to do. I am so proud to do this work, this way.
I am so appreciative of my family, and the families of the doulas who support this work in every way; they care for the children, give rides, pick up dropped tasks and make tea for us when we return home, weary and tired. See? We care for each other.
And there are so many ways to care for. I used to think literally about care- as in physical care, given from one who is trained to one who is vulnerable. I am understanding now more and more that it is so much broader, deeper and sublime than this. Those who make paintings- create beauty. Beauty brings peace, joy and fulfillment to ourselves and others. Those who play music evoke heat, solice and energy in our tired or bored selves. Those who collect trash free of us our debris, those who fix computers allow us to do our work. Those who stay in the home raising children and teaching are protecting our collective futures. Those who pray for us all day, guarding our salvation and our collective sanctuaries. The philosophers, writers, thinkers, keeping our minds sharp and provoking us to avoid subservience. The police who keep order and the lawyers who challenge it. There are so many ways to care. Quiet, loud. Easy, challenging. Sweet and brutal. Steel blue and blood red.
We are given gifts from the Creator, our own flavor of caring. Our flare that we embody as we live out our days. I am so blessed to know that I am a midwife. A mother. A writer, a photographer, a dancer, a spiritual being, having a human experience. I am so blessed.
I had tea with my grandmother Lucia this morning. She is a beautiful woman with my blue eyes who actually grew taller in her 70s as a result of her regular ballet practice. She started at the age of 40, and stopped dancing at the age of 80. At 76 she could still put leg up on the barre. I was 21 when I went to class with her, and I could not put my leg up on the barre. Needless to say, she is my inspiration.
My grandpa sat upstairs quietly sleeping in his chair while we talked. He can't tell his story anymore. He doesn't remember it. But she does.
She told me about their lives when he was in in medical school in the 1940's. They lived in Chicago, Trinidad and Denver. They met because their families were friends, but really got to know each other over a dead cat in their pre-med comparative anatomy class. My grandmother abandoned med school when my grandpa proposed to her, "without a second thought" she said. Yes, she would have enjoyed being a doctor (one of the few women docs at the time. Her doctor, incidentally, was the first woman OB doc in Madison), but she had no doubt that she would marry my granpa support his pediatric practice, and raise her 4 children.
I asked her about my grandpa's medical practice, and was intreagued with what she told me. He, like his father, "Grandpa Kent" was a pediatrician in private practice. He had his own office space and own patients. He would see clients in the office during the day, and those who needed house calls would call their home, leave a message with grandma (who also handled the books for the practice) and when he got home, he would call everyone back and then eat dinner (or not) with the family, and head out to see sick kids. She said he never took off his suit, until he got into bed at night. And even then, he left it by the bed, so it would be ready if he had to go in the middle of the night. He was on call for his patients all the time. He would go out nearly every night and on Fridays, when Margaret would come over and take care of the children so they could go out, he would leave his name at the desk of wherever they went, so his patients could track him down. He accepted trades, and my grandma says there were plenty of times he didn't charge patients when he knew they couldn't afford it. There were no insurance companies back then, just direct payment for services. My grandma remembers that a standard visit was $7. Wow. He stopped practicing in 1968. His father before him had the same type of practice, plus a radio show and book, "Let's talk about your baby", written from the baby's point of view, giving tips to his/her nanny on how to care for it. House calls. Generosity. Service. Care. Selflessness and sacrifice. Balance, and grace.
I asked my grandma if that was hard for her, with 4 children, to be home alone with them so much and her husband off caring for other people's children. She seemed a little surprised by my question. "Well, no, not really" she said. "I always enjoyed our time together when we had it. We were very blessed.". Indeed.
I love these stories, and know that I come from this, and am proud to carry on this legacy of caring for people when and were they need it. In their homes. Lending strength to individuals, and therefore, the community.
With, Grace.
Hannah, the word for Grace in an ancient Hebrew language.
Also the name of my Mother's great-grandma, a midwife and Norweigan homesteader in North Dakota.
My middle name with two "h"s added.
With love, on this quiet, snowy day between meals and conversations,
Erin Hannah Tenney
Most recently I smiled to have found my blog again- [inspired by my dear friend, doula, musician, writer and blogger, Heidi Howes http://heidihowes.wordpress.com/] and read my last entry, made just over a year ago, entitled "Grace".
Let me tell you about where I am right now. Sitting on cushions, drinking Jasmine Pearl tea at my favorite tea house in Madison http://machateahouse.com/machahome.html in a steel blue room with red curtains (any one who knows me well, knows that these are my favorite colors together- like the lake and blood) and a sign over the door that says "Grace."
I am overlooking Monroe St. at snow coming down at a steady pace. I used to walk this street on my way to grade school every day with my dad. I had to half-run to keep up with his long stride. I'd stop at the corner drug store to buy lemon heads for 10 cents as a young child, and then when I was a little older, would stop on the way home to see what sundry things were happening under "the bridge". Some of you may know what I'm referring to. First kisses come to mind.
Like a homing pigeon, I always seem to come back to this part of town, where I and my grandma grew up. In the same beautiful house on Adams Street.
My first 5 jobs were on this street. I met Sebastian's dad on this street. I almost got hit by a car on this street. I walked to Orange Tree with my best friends and bought stickers to trade on this street. Bought sweet clothes for my baby at Wild Child on this street. http://www.wildchildclothes.com/ And now, I find solace on this street. Alone with my thoughts and full heart. Was quiet, now people talking. Mucklucks sitting in the corner; reminding me of the Northwoods, my home now.
The place where my son is, my parents are, my best friend and my love are. Taking down Christmas trees, making fires in the wigwam, skiing, sharing meals, loving me over the miles.
My community. "My people" as we used to say at UU camp; the ones who make up your circle. My doula sisters. Amazing women and one man who choose to volunteer their time and give their hearts serving families as they birth their children. These doulas are on call for their clients, visit them in their homes, advocate for housing improvements, assist with breastfeeding, stay at the hospital with them while they birth, sometimes for days or go to stay in their homes and care for other children, cook, massage, listen to women as they prepare to or recover from birth. They take buses to visits if they don't have a car and sometimes get snowed in. They go to social service apts. and write birth stories and take photos and advocate and hold space.
This is what makes our community strong. We care for each other. We don't do it for money, we do it because it's the right thing to do. I am so proud to do this work, this way.
I am so appreciative of my family, and the families of the doulas who support this work in every way; they care for the children, give rides, pick up dropped tasks and make tea for us when we return home, weary and tired. See? We care for each other.
And there are so many ways to care for. I used to think literally about care- as in physical care, given from one who is trained to one who is vulnerable. I am understanding now more and more that it is so much broader, deeper and sublime than this. Those who make paintings- create beauty. Beauty brings peace, joy and fulfillment to ourselves and others. Those who play music evoke heat, solice and energy in our tired or bored selves. Those who collect trash free of us our debris, those who fix computers allow us to do our work. Those who stay in the home raising children and teaching are protecting our collective futures. Those who pray for us all day, guarding our salvation and our collective sanctuaries. The philosophers, writers, thinkers, keeping our minds sharp and provoking us to avoid subservience. The police who keep order and the lawyers who challenge it. There are so many ways to care. Quiet, loud. Easy, challenging. Sweet and brutal. Steel blue and blood red.
We are given gifts from the Creator, our own flavor of caring. Our flare that we embody as we live out our days. I am so blessed to know that I am a midwife. A mother. A writer, a photographer, a dancer, a spiritual being, having a human experience. I am so blessed.
I had tea with my grandmother Lucia this morning. She is a beautiful woman with my blue eyes who actually grew taller in her 70s as a result of her regular ballet practice. She started at the age of 40, and stopped dancing at the age of 80. At 76 she could still put leg up on the barre. I was 21 when I went to class with her, and I could not put my leg up on the barre. Needless to say, she is my inspiration.
My grandpa sat upstairs quietly sleeping in his chair while we talked. He can't tell his story anymore. He doesn't remember it. But she does.
She told me about their lives when he was in in medical school in the 1940's. They lived in Chicago, Trinidad and Denver. They met because their families were friends, but really got to know each other over a dead cat in their pre-med comparative anatomy class. My grandmother abandoned med school when my grandpa proposed to her, "without a second thought" she said. Yes, she would have enjoyed being a doctor (one of the few women docs at the time. Her doctor, incidentally, was the first woman OB doc in Madison), but she had no doubt that she would marry my granpa support his pediatric practice, and raise her 4 children.
I asked her about my grandpa's medical practice, and was intreagued with what she told me. He, like his father, "Grandpa Kent" was a pediatrician in private practice. He had his own office space and own patients. He would see clients in the office during the day, and those who needed house calls would call their home, leave a message with grandma (who also handled the books for the practice) and when he got home, he would call everyone back and then eat dinner (or not) with the family, and head out to see sick kids. She said he never took off his suit, until he got into bed at night. And even then, he left it by the bed, so it would be ready if he had to go in the middle of the night. He was on call for his patients all the time. He would go out nearly every night and on Fridays, when Margaret would come over and take care of the children so they could go out, he would leave his name at the desk of wherever they went, so his patients could track him down. He accepted trades, and my grandma says there were plenty of times he didn't charge patients when he knew they couldn't afford it. There were no insurance companies back then, just direct payment for services. My grandma remembers that a standard visit was $7. Wow. He stopped practicing in 1968. His father before him had the same type of practice, plus a radio show and book, "Let's talk about your baby", written from the baby's point of view, giving tips to his/her nanny on how to care for it. House calls. Generosity. Service. Care. Selflessness and sacrifice. Balance, and grace.
I asked my grandma if that was hard for her, with 4 children, to be home alone with them so much and her husband off caring for other people's children. She seemed a little surprised by my question. "Well, no, not really" she said. "I always enjoyed our time together when we had it. We were very blessed.". Indeed.
I love these stories, and know that I come from this, and am proud to carry on this legacy of caring for people when and were they need it. In their homes. Lending strength to individuals, and therefore, the community.
With, Grace.
Hannah, the word for Grace in an ancient Hebrew language.
Also the name of my Mother's great-grandma, a midwife and Norweigan homesteader in North Dakota.
My middle name with two "h"s added.
With love, on this quiet, snowy day between meals and conversations,
Erin Hannah Tenney
2 comments:
Amazing writing, Erin! So glad to hear this story and please write more!!! Hooray for you stepping forward on your journey, I am so proud of us!!! Love you,
Heidi
Erin,
Very nicely done.
A couple stories I remember about your grandfather, my father regarding house calls.
He and my Mom processed a big batch of black walnuts, lots of work removing husks and smashing the tough nuts. They collected a small bowl of delicious meats for, I think, a batch of cookies.
The walnuts also stained their hands, the stain couldn't be washed out, it remained until new skin appeared.
My Dad was very self-conscious about seeming to be examining the kids with dirty hands.
The other story illustrates a nice science trick, pure water will not freeze unless there is a bit of impurity to catalyze the process. In those days you would prepare a shot by mixing serum and water in the syringe. If his medicine bag had been out in the cold, when he put the syringe into the supercooled water, it would instantly freeze.
Love,
Dad
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