The Book Of Anne
The reader will laugh and cry as I recount how
the children’s deceased mother leads me
through the sixteen years of guiding the
grandchildren toward college, first job
discrimination, marriage and a second empty
nest. Throughout the memoir my alter-ego
divulges things I can’t bring myself to tell.
Behind all the struggles and joys lies a love story
of sixty-five years and a glue of deep faith that
Ed and I hold within our hearts - that God is
always there with us, each step of the journey.
Recognizing that children have no political lobby
and that the government seems unaware of the
destruction it is inflicting on way too many of
tomorrow’s young adults I presents a possible
remedy at the memoir’s close because I believe
every child has the inherent right of parental
love.
the children’s deceased mother leads me
through the sixteen years of guiding the
grandchildren toward college, first job
discrimination, marriage and a second empty
nest. Throughout the memoir my alter-ego
divulges things I can’t bring myself to tell.
Behind all the struggles and joys lies a love story
of sixty-five years and a glue of deep faith that
Ed and I hold within our hearts - that God is
always there with us, each step of the journey.
Recognizing that children have no political lobby
and that the government seems unaware of the
destruction it is inflicting on way too many of
tomorrow’s young adults I presents a possible
remedy at the memoir’s close because I believe
every child has the inherent right of parental
love.
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The reader is plunged into The Book of Anne, on the remote banks of the
Pigeon River. I'm there to go tubing with my husband, Ed and our three
orphaned grandchildren, Patrick, Rachael and Laura. No theme park, the
river flows through a remote wilderness area in the upper portion of Michigan’
s Lower Peninsula. The fast flowing water and a close encounter with tragedy
on this hot August afternoon in 1992 are a hint of my life as it is to unfold in the
years yet ahead.
Pigeon River. I'm there to go tubing with my husband, Ed and our three
orphaned grandchildren, Patrick, Rachael and Laura. No theme park, the
river flows through a remote wilderness area in the upper portion of Michigan’
s Lower Peninsula. The fast flowing water and a close encounter with tragedy
on this hot August afternoon in 1992 are a hint of my life as it is to unfold in the
years yet ahead.
I come to know that like the rapid flow of the clear, cold waters of the Pigeon
River life does not pause or show awareness that death has come and
gone. The sun still rises each morning and sets in the evening. The human
body, although racked with the trauma of grief and pain expects to be fed,
clothed and cared for. The year before, following our widowed daughter’s
funeral services, my husband and I simply reached out to take our orphaned
grandchildren home. The children were six, eight and ten. Ed was seventy-
one and I, sixty-nine. Neither of us considered how it was all to happen.
In the dual roll of grandparents and parents we set goals, discover answers
and create memories as the grandchildren move from childhood, through
their teens and into adulthood. Our peers drift away as casseroles, PTA
meetings, track meets, drama practice, laundry and piano lessons fill our
lives. I learn to answer, “It’s all possible because Ed is retired, I’m post-
menopausal and the children are out of diapers and past teething.’
River life does not pause or show awareness that death has come and
gone. The sun still rises each morning and sets in the evening. The human
body, although racked with the trauma of grief and pain expects to be fed,
clothed and cared for. The year before, following our widowed daughter’s
funeral services, my husband and I simply reached out to take our orphaned
grandchildren home. The children were six, eight and ten. Ed was seventy-
one and I, sixty-nine. Neither of us considered how it was all to happen.
In the dual roll of grandparents and parents we set goals, discover answers
and create memories as the grandchildren move from childhood, through
their teens and into adulthood. Our peers drift away as casseroles, PTA
meetings, track meets, drama practice, laundry and piano lessons fill our
lives. I learn to answer, “It’s all possible because Ed is retired, I’m post-
menopausal and the children are out of diapers and past teething.’
I find myself tangled in governmental reports and a web of red tape. Unable
to escape I eventually run head first into the devastating ‘Eighteen-and-out
Law’ of Social Security, uncover the well kept secret of Medicare too late
and receive a phone call that discloses the government has shorted the
three grandchildren thousands of dollars in their insurance benefits. It is only
then I understand why Ed’s and my retirement nest egg is slowly
disappearing.