Seasons Change and So Do Families​

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I have moved twice in my life once as an infant and another when I was 18. My home on 6250 Dean Rd is a haven. Every version of myself is painted throughout the walls of my home. The creaky, oak floorboards have been a stage for the story of who I am today.

Myself, my mother, father, and younger brother, Frank, occupy this home along with two furry friends. While there are only four of us, there are a plethora of side characters, friends turned family in most regards. It is easy to tell that the contractors of our home would have been wise to install a prevolving door instead of a grand oak front door with a loose lock. New and old friends bring light into the home with every laugh and smile.

When thinking back to my childhood, I remember my parents filling our home on any occasion, from Super Bowls to religious celebrations to concerts in my backyard. Home has always been a place for joyful congregation.

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The seasons change fast and hard in the midwest, waking up you never really know what kind of weather you will get, but no matter if it was a blizzard or nearing 100 degrees, my family always knew how to transform our small home into a cozy place for all.

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Winter was a wonderland in my home. Two Christmas trees, garland on the mantels, and singing and dancing Santas by the fireplace, it was simply a dream. Catholicism has run deep in my family for generations, cradle catholic is a frequent term used to describe people in my community. 5 pm mass on Christmas Eve is a non-negotiable in my household, that is if you can get a seat. The church was packed to the brim with familiar and new faces. Many were seen at my house after service. As you may know, for Santa to adequately perform his job, children must provide cookies. So, my little brother and I would have our friends and their families take part in a massive cookie bake. We would sit at the old dining room table playing games while sharing our Christmas wishes. Friends gathered around and shared gifts, no material objects that is, just loving support, and well-spirited wishes.

 

Santa tracking channel would blare from the TV while we sat with anticipation to see our great city, Indianapolis, make its debut waiting for the cookies to finish up.

 

Once they were cooked to perfection, my mother would distribute them into bags so each family could take them home, while also stealing a bite or two for herself. Soon after, we would all say our goodbyes and my brother and I would hurry into bed.

After long and loud rain storms, spring comes in full bloom. Rose of Sharon buds in my front yard by the mailbox.

 

My mother planted seeds when she first moved in. She tells me that when she was growing up her mother, my grandmother had a luscious rose bush in her yard.

 

White petals with hints of purple coat the new grass. Easter follows soon after the first flowers peek from their green buds. Before Easter Sunday, my mother and father would orchestrate a day filled with egg decorating. Once my brother, myself, and the Dilts’ children walk in the front door from playing outside we are instructed to take our muddy shoes off. The Dilts are our family, no blood involved, just that our mothers were best friends from college and we grew up side by side. We would spend the next hours dying hard-boiled eggs over newspaper on my old, creaky dining room table. Very carefully, trying not to stain the already stained table, we dunk the eggs into an array of dyes. Purple, green, blue, and the rest of the rainbow are out on the table to experiment with. Oops! A drop here and a little stain there.

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My mother is now thankful for those slippery little hands staining her table as those stains are now fond memories of us.

     

Summer was a whirlwind for my brother and I. Always up to something, sports practices, sleep away camp, or weeks at my grandparents. We didn't have much time to rest. The most valuable time during the summers was right after our parents finished work. We would all play outside running around the backyard and on the jungle gym, while my dad grilled chicken on the grill. We would be exhausted from the long day with the nanny, but always pushed through just so we could frolic around about as a family. After we washed our hands free of dirt, we prepared the table for dinner. My parents were on food duty whilst Frank and I set the table. Water with dinner always. A staple in my household, is water all day. Never kept soda, we had options for milk or juice, but I never really gravitated to it. Four large ice glasses of water sat on the table ready with napkins and silverware side by side. We would sit around the table sharing our day, plans, news, and laughs. Sweet barbeque chicken breasts, Indiana corn, and stringed green beans would fill our tummies. After dinner and showers, we would sit in the den and a movie would play as my tired little eyes began to fade.

In my town, fall is the most beautiful season. Kind of like Bloomington, trees paint the streets all sorts of orange hues. My family's faith was tested in November many moons ago. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. My brother and I were younger children when my mother became sick, unable to fully grasp the reality of our lifeline’s mortal being.

 

It was a grueling fall filled with uncertainty, surgeries, and a lot of casseroles.

 

Breakfast casseroles, pizzas, homemade pasta dishes, and a spread of cookies were brought over in ten fold. The community stepped up and picked my family up on the darkest of days. A meal train was organized by a close friend. Families in and outside our circle would come to our home with arms full of food. Dinner, lunch, and breakfast were handed as blessings from others. My father, busy working to support our family emotionally and financially, had a thin bandwidth. The most remembered meals during this time were brought to us by America’s favorite: Mr. Ronald McDonald. Happy meals and small sprites in the car after kickball practice on the way to see my mom when she would spend longer spouts in the hospital. But when the community was taking care of our meals, my father could give us more of himself. Those moments before bed reading Disney books together on the green settee were pivotal to my brother's and my little aching hearts. During this time, I began to realize food was much more than a meal, but it brought my family hope and community.

I am so blessed to have had the experiences I have had with the community God gifted me. Food is not much when it is not enjoyed alongside those who fuel your heart and mind. Reflecting on my experiences, it is clear that community and health systems are deeply intertwined, shaping individual well-being and families' strength during challenging times. My family's journey through hardship, particularly my mother's battle with cancer, revealed the vital role a supportive community plays in sustaining us, not only emotionally but practically, through everyday acts of care. The meal train, the visits from friends and neighbors, and the thoughtful gestures of others allowed us to focus on healing while reinforcing the importance of shared care.

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In times of difficulty, when personal strength falters, the resilience of a connected community becomes a vital source of comfort and hope.

 

Just as our home has always been a space for celebration and togetherness, it has shown me that the health of a family, a neighborhood, or even a larger society depends on the willingness of its members to uplift one another. Our shared experiences of joy and sorrow are the ties that bind us together, making a lifeline that helps us navigate the complexities of health.