An Aries Knows (this site is more fun when people read and comment)
Love this photo of Daddy working on the riding lawn mower because:
Inside family joke: A couple of days later, You Know Who probably made that lawn mower able to cut grass all the way to Birmingham and back.
My mother, pictured here in the center, was in her mid-sixties when she volunteered as a Pink Lady (though by then they were called “Auxiliary Volunteers”) in the hospital of the small town where she was living. This might have been the last of decades of her volunteering in hospitals, libraries, schools, and museums.
For many years, she was a Red Cross volunteer. I don’t think I have a photo of her in her Red Cross uniform, but I do have some of her pins, along with other volunteer pins, pictured here:
One time Olivia de Havilland was coming to the town where we lived—I’m not sure if I was in high school or college then. But my mother, knowing how much I love the actress, went to the airport hoping to get her autograph for me. It just so happened to be one of the days Mother worked at the hospital on our nearby Army post, so she was in her Red Cross uniform. Miss de Havilland had been a frequent visitor to hospitals during World War II, plus—a passionate reader—she once recalled that the first book she ever read was written for the benefit of the Red Cross in World War I. So my mother may have been right in her belief that it was her uniform that made Miss de Havilland stop and not only give her an autograph but spend a few minutes in conversation with her.
Sadly, though that autograph was among my most treasured keepsakes, it has been misplaced for years. Maybe one day it’ll turn up tucked into some other papers—but I’ll always appreciate the kind hearts of the two women who gave it to me.
May 14 is my brother David’s birthday. When the family was together recently, I got to retell one of my mother’s favorite stories.
When he was about the age you see him in these pictures–a toddler–Mother put him down for a nap one day. Then she and a friend sat on the porch to talk.
After a bit, Mother looked down the road and saw a woman holding the hand of a child and walking in her direction.
“That baby’s probably about the same age as David,” she mused.
The woman and child came closer. She laughed and said, “That child even looks a little like David.”
A few seconds and another glance later, she said, “That little boy is David!”
Apparently he’d taught himself how to climb over the rail of his baby bed and slide head first to the floor. He then made his escape through the back door and trotted down the road wearing nothing but his diaper. He was spotted by a stranger. She took his hand and began walking him in the direction he’d come from, sure sooner or later she’d find a frantic mother.
He still loves to walk, though he’s often guiding other people over mountainous terrain in the western states. And now he knows to dress appropriately.
We’re all thinking of you with love on your birthday, David, and we’re glad you always come back from your travels with stories to tell.
A very happy Mother’s Day to all of you who are mothers–whether by biology, fostering, adopting, step-parenting, or acting as mother figures to those with whom you share a profound bond of love. I was fortunate to have the mother I did, and I also had others who nurtured and taught me, like Elnora and Pollye, and of course my wonderful mother-in-law Mary.
My mother loved to work crossword puzzles. Reading gave her a rich vocabulary, and the puzzles made good use of it and added to it. It’s a pastime my sister also enjoys, and when Debby was here recently and finished the book she was reading, she said she needed to get a crossword puzzle book. I still had the last two–and a pack of mechanical pencils–that I’d bought for my mother not long before she died: the giant puzzles with easier words, so they wouldn’t frustrate her.
I gave one of the books to my sister–I think only one puzzle had been started and left unfinished by me. I kept the other one, and found this puzzle that I’d done, probably while sitting next to my mother as she slept.
Notice that number 11 across is “mama”: the clue was “She’s remembered.”
She surely is.
When I decided to do the year-long legacy writing project, writing about memories inspired by photos, I knew many dates and occasions would lend themselves to specific recollections: my parents’ anniversary, certain birthdays, events related to friends. As I once said to Rhonda and Lindsey, I consider these posts love letters to the people from all places and times of my life, a way to share what they meant or mean to me. In regard to my nephew Aaron, I’d already anticipated posts related to his graduation from high school next month, memories of the first time I met him, special moments we shared with my mother before her death in June of 2008, and his nineteenth birthday on December 19.
Aaron died on April 25. As I went through the painful process of sharing this news with friends, so many of them said things that will be part of my coping and healing. One such thing stands out. My friend Carreme wrote, “Please do write what you had planned for Aaron for this year. What better way to honor him.” I know she’s right. I wrote a letter to Aaron that was buried with him, and in it I said, “And I will write to you and about you many more times, as I’m sure you could have guessed.” Aaron loved hearing and reading our family stories. We all looked forward to the many he would add to our collection.
I can’t thank everyone enough for the memories or words you’ve shared with me. And I want to give any of you who wish a space and opportunity also to share your thoughts with Aaron’s parents, Lisa and my brother David, as well as Aaron’s other family and friends. Please feel free to express your condolences or to describe memories of Aaron or special moments with him in comments to this post. I will make sure your words are received by them.
Aaron was preceded in death by the two grandmothers he loved, Dorothy Baggett Cochrane and Gaylene Rogers Brown. He is survived by his mother Lisa, his father David, his sister Heather, and his brothers Daniel and Alex. He will be missed by his girlfriend Rachel; aunts Debby, Becky, Laura, Louise, Linda, Anne; his uncles Danne, Owen, and Tom; his nephews Dave and Steven; his many cousins Josh and Dalyn, Sarah and Mark, Gina and Eric, Maddison, Lexi Lee, Jamison, Matthew, Jacob, and Jennie; and Cochrane family special connections Geri, Terri, Aimee, Tim, and Lynne. (If I’ve missed, mis-remembered, or misspelled anyone’s name, please comment to let me know and I’ll add or correct.) Aaron will also be missed and remembered by many friends from school, church, taekwondo, work, and the places he volunteered his time.
Some of you have asked if there are specific organizations to which you might donate in honor of Aaron’s memory.
In closing, I’d like to share the remarks my brother gave at Aaron’s funeral. Thank you to everyone who will take the time to read about this young man who means so much to our family. As I expressed to my friend David P when we talked about the special bond between children and their aunts and uncles, Aaron was the gift I didn’t know I wanted until he came. And as his cousin Gina said, “My heart will ache forever.”
From David Cochrane: This is the text of remarks I delivered at Aaron’s memorial service on May 1, 2012, at the Cedar Park, Texas, ward house of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Although under the pall of sadness, I may have made slight deviations, this is as I intended my remarks.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, I was in the room with your mother at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City when you came into this world.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, now, all too soon, we find ourselves in another room with your mother after you have left this world. Would that it were not so!
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, Lisa and I chose the name you carried so as to remind you of both of your families.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, friend, cousin, nephew, uncle, brother, son, born in Utah, you lived most of your life in Texas, and you were keenly interested in your roots in the South.
When you would visit my mother Dorothy, you would pore over her decades of photos, ask many questions, hang on her stories, share her memories. Your aunts Debby and Becky have similar memories of your visits with them. Always the questions.
After my mother passed, you were able, due to the graciousness of Becky and her husband Tom, to join us at her memorial service. You stood by my side as her remains were placed with those of your Grandfather Bill at Fort McClellan in eastern Alabama.
When Cochranes gather in times of sadness, we tell stories; we always have. And always those stories become more and more outrageous. You sat with us — cousins, your aunts, your brother Daniel, your nephew David (your nephew Steven too young to make the trip), family friends, me — that night and listened to stories and laughed long and loud with us, mostly about people you’d not known, nor, in some cases, heard of.
That night, when you and I returned to our room, you began to ask questions about the people of whom we’d spoken. Thus we decided to make a pilgrimage to visit the resting places of other of your forebears. That next day we traveled to northwest Alabama to pay respects to your paternal great-grandfather and great-grandmother. We continued on to visit your second- and third-great-grandfathers. We drove to Tupelo, Mississippi, where Dorothy’s parents, the Baggetts, rest. We visited old homesteads, small towns, country cross-roads churches. You heard stories of long-gone antecedents who fought to establish this country, others who fought to rend it asunder, and still others who fought to defend it, of slave-holders and activists for equal rights. You took it all in and let it become a part of you.
And yet, of that day, what I took was the memory of you and I… a cemetery, Center Methodist Church… deep in the Alabama hills, the foot of the Appalachian Mountains far back in the piney woods… a downpour like can only happen in the Gulf coastal states began to fall. As you and I ran back toward the car, a small, soggy-sodden, bedraggled kitten was suddenly running alongside you. Somehow it knew you were its salvation. Without breaking stride, you picked it up, and into the car it went. As we sat there, the wet cat shivering, you unbuttoned your shirt, and put it inside that shirt next to you. Then you matter-of-factly announced that you were going to take it on the plane back to Texas; it could go in your carry-on. Me: “Uh, maybe we’d better call your mother.” No answer. You were determined in your plan.
Off the lone paved road, there was a dirt road down which we spied a single house. We drove to it. No one was there, but on the front porch was a small box with towels in it, a saucer of milk, and some food. You knew the kitten was home, and you were, then, willing to let go of it. For myself, I knew what you were made of, and I was proud.
On a recent visit with your Aunt Becky and Tom in Houston, you seemed happy. They noted that even though you still asked questions, you’d begun to develop your own way to tell the stories.
Only a few weeks ago, my partner Geri Mendoza and a colleague visited Austin on business. You, your mother, Geri, her colleague and her sister, all had lunch together. When you discovered that the sister was a photographer, you asked questions, then fell into a long, involved discussion on cameras and the art of photography.
As I’ve spoken with people over the last couple of days, the one theme that kept emerging is that Aaron showed none of the signs one might expect of one who took the action he did. To the contrary, he brimmed with thoughts of the future, was interested in the world around him, and displayed a sense of humor that ranged from subtle to slapstick. In short, his was not a story of a descent into hopelessness and despair, but that of a young person with all the attributes — intelligence, curiosity, interest in others — that would have allowed him to successfully go wherever he wished with his life.
That leaves us with the question, then, of why, with so much yet to do, did he choose the path he did? As we know, there is no answer, only more questions. If there is no answer, then the word “inexplicable” remains. If there is no answer, then words like “fault” or “blame” cannot apply. There is no guilt to be had, only sadness, only our shared deep sense of loss.
Aaron Buchanan Cochrane made one bad decision all too quickly, and, thus, the inexplicable and the irreversible become one. Time does not heal all wounds, but it may lessen the pain. Aaron may no longer be with us, but we’ll always have Aaron. And we will always honor and love him, just as we will continue to love and support Lisa, the mother who gave him to us.
Earlier today, I tweeted, “Ever notice there are times in your life when music feels like an enemy instead of a friend?”
Then as I was looking through the photo album to which I returned Jeff’s picture (see earlier post), R.E.M. sang, “I’ve found a way to make you…I’ve found a way…A way to make you smile…At my most beautiful” just as I saw this photo. And it’s true. They do always make me smile and they are at their most beautiful every year they’ve been part of my life. There is nothing in the world like being Aunt Becky.
I’ve said before how fortunate I was that when I married Tom, he came with a grandmother. Her name was Louise–the middle name of my own paternal grandmother–but I always called her Grandma, like all the other grandkids and their partners and spouses. She lived to be ninety-two, and every time I saw her, she seemed as sharp as ever and was always ready to tell me stories, which I loved to hear. I also loved her twinkling eyes and her mischievous attitude.
I was just looking through an album that Tom’s parents put together in honor of Grandma’s ninetieth birthday (for her party, it was suggested that we all bring her ninety of something, so along with other gifts, Tom and I gave her ninety crayons and some coloring books, because I believe we are never too old to color) while thinking of some of her stories that made me laugh, especially her ongoing war with the gophers in her garden. I found this photo that I’d forgotten about (not sure who took it).
Grandma at age eighty-nine shooting hoops with her son-in-law Boyd and his son-in-law Todd. I’d love to have even a fraction of her stamina as I get older!
More than a decade after my first husband and I divorced, after Tom and I had already lived in Houston for several years, I unpacked my old Barbies for the first time. It wasn’t until then that I realized I still had First Husband’s childhood GI Joe doll. I wasn’t even sure of his address at that point, so I told Jess, who had GI Joe action figures, that he could take the doll if he’d put it away and take care of it. Recently when Lynne and I were going through her photo albums, she opened a box and found GI Joe again.
Joe in his fatigue cap. He’s got nothing on this guy:
Joe in his helmet.
This guy would not approve of Joe’s weapon, which is not regulation.
In fact, the gun isn’t even GI Joe’s. I guess it’s another toy I inadvertently stole with Joe, part of Hake’s Wanted Dead or Alive game.
This is my favorite part of Joe’s getup: backpack accessory!
Also packed away with him was what may be a flight suit, but I can’t find one like it online for any male doll of that era. The lining is all cracked and powdery, as if it might be the Flight Suit O’ Anthrax. Biological warfare!
Here’s my dad training his men at the DMZ in Korea in helicopter rope suspension. There’s not a white flight suit in sight.
Though I suppose I could use a Bedazzler on Joe’s outfit, and we could pretend my father was training Elvis impersonators for the Helicopter Rope Suspension Elvi, something like these guys:
Image taken from the Internet without permission and I expect a cease and desist email from the You Know Who estate any minute. Also, should the original owner of the GI Joe pictured stumble over this blog post sometime in the future and contact me, I will return the doll and his fashion. Though it’ll be hard to give up the backpack.
It may take a while, but I think I can manage the legacy writing entries in such a way to finish the year on time after my week-plus away. This matters to no one but me, I know, but as an Aries who’s worked hard to refute the image of us as “great starters; poor finishers,” I do try to follow through on these tasks I set for myself. Plus I enjoy writing about the people and places I remember, so it’s not exactly a burden to me to catch up.
Some of my favorite memories are from nights around the table playing progressive rummy, first with Lynne’s aunts and cousins, when we’d be using so many decks that I’d have to run to a separate table to splay out my cards and figure out what I could play. After Tom and I moved to Houston, we’d play game after game with Lynne and Craig on the weekends, inviting in anyone else who dropped by their house. We would fortify ourselves with oldies on the radio, pots of coffee, and lots of cussing.
To this day, I keep a notebook with the running scores of games we play at our house with Lynne and her family, and a separate legal pad for the games my sister plays when she’s visiting Houston.
Debby knows it’s inevitable that the cards will come out sooner or later, and she always greets their appearance with dramatic moans and teeth gnashing. We were able to squeeze in three games Thursday night–Tim won the first two. Then, in spite of all my best efforts to mis-add her score, the outcome of the third game led to her suggestion that I shoot a photo for posterity. (Lowest number of points wins.)
Just wait’ll next time…
It may be a while before I share some of the things that I want…and need…to share. So many words for me to absorb and rearrange and shape into something coherent. I think one of the smartest things I’ve stumbled on was the difference between grieving and mourning. That’s all to talk about later.
I’ve always tried to be mindful in the saddest and hardest times that reasons to celebrate remain bountiful. This idea was given to me as a gift in 1986, but I’m the one who has to choose to use that gift each day.
So today, I commend Jess–my nephew not by birth, but by love–for getting his Masters of Divinity from theological seminary. It seems like only minutes ago when factions of his family were pulling for an entirely different educational future for him:
Jess at seven months: Roll Tide.
Jess just over a year old: War Eagle.
We’re all proud of the fine young man you are, Jess. Congratulations.
Thanks, Lynne, for sharing your photos–and your son.