When my dad and mom got married, my mother had a bike and my father had an old orange Volkswagen bug. It was a stick shift, and my mom didn’t have much practice with stick shifts ( let alone old VW bug stick shifts), but she did have a dog named Wendy. Wendy was a wonderful dog who had the patience of Job, being my main playmate and dress-up doll as I was an only child for six years.

My parent’s first Christmas would not be complete without a REAL tree. We have continued this tradition faithfully. Daddy suggested one year we buy a fake one, but was soon subdued by the evil looks that Anna and I gave him. At that time we had a Marsh supermarket (that sold Christmas trees) about eight blocks from home. Now there is an “Anytime Fitness” located there. After picking out a nice tree, Dad dragged it back to the car (it was all bound up) and discovered that it would not fit in the orange VW bug.

Dad was creative, tossed the keys to my mother, and said he would race her home—he with the tree, and she with the stick shift and Wendy (who for some reason was in the car with them). It takes her a minute to even realize what is going on, and by then dad has dragged the tree half way across the parking lot.

Enter Uncle James. My father’s namesake, Uncle James was known for his jokes and laughter—and once he had a funny story about you to tell, it would be told. Uncle James decided to come visit the new happy couple in their first few months of marriage. He pulled up to their home on Otterbein and knocked on the door, but no one was home. He walked slowly back to his car and was heralded by the sight of the race.

The race, who can tell if the sides were ever fair, turned off of Hanna Ave and onto Otterbein neck and neck, but dad and the Christmas tree were gaining. Mom and the VW bug were convulsing down the street slowly with the doors swinging open and shut. You could just barely see a frightened dog huddled in the back, scared for her life. Uncle James never let anyone forget the story, and so I am telling it to you today.

Daddy gives me trip money for every trip and looks just like grandpa when he does. I still remember him and grandpa having their scripted argument over travel money. I wonder how old I will have to be before I will argue about it. Probably when I am ready to give travel money to my kid. Travel money is invested money; it says, “Come back soon.”

I remember watching my dad take care of his parents. Every weekend we used to drive a couple hours to spend the day or two with Grandpa and Grandma. Weed the garden. Mow the lawn. Rake the leaves. I remember their big old wheel barrel. But I remember his commitment to his parents even more. I feel that strongly. That when it is my turn, I will be there.

One of the greatest things my father ever did for me was give me cds. The summer after I had been to Brazil for the first time (in 1999), I wanted to return again. I prayed about it and tried, but nothing seemed to work out. I knew that Brazil was something special to me, I just didn’t know how it fit. My dad didn’t say much during my frustration, but one day he gave me a pack of Portuguese language cds.

“Don’t give up on your dream. If God spoke to you about Brazil, then you will go back. And until then, you should learn some Portuguese.” We were pulling up to the drive through at Taco Bell, and I just sat there quietly with the cds in my lap. I knew that I believed that God had spoken to me about Brazil, but I hadn’t known that anyone else had believed it as well. Those cds were like tangible proof of faith unseen: it was real, God did speak to little me, and one day it would come to pass.

I lost 7 teeth due to playing ball. The first one was actually a kickball—we were playing pass at church and the ball missed my hands and landed on my face. I didn’t realize the tooth fell out until the blood was everywhere. It took a while to find the tooth, but I had to figure out the whole tooth fairy thing, so it was important.

The other 6 teeth were due to basketball. I was my father’s first son. From our kitchen window, you can see two houses over where the Jones’ basketball court is. If you look hard enough, you can see when someone is playing ball. As soon as I saw signs of activity, I would run down the alley to their house. The Jones’ had five children: heaven when you are an only child (which I was until I was six years old, and even then she was just a baby, so didn’t count).

There was always someone to play with: Cathy, the oldest—just enough older than me to be VERY cool, Josh and David, like older brothers to me, except for the phase where David would chase me around the swing set, threatening to kiss me (I never forgave him for that, and he never managed it. I was fast), Becky, who was (and still is) one of my bestest friends, and Rachel, who we called “Little Rachel” to differentiate from me (I was called “Big Rachel,” even though I was always small for my age).

Josh and David were typical Hoosier boys, who grow up playing basketball. I joined them. Sometimes I could convince Cathy or Becky to join me, but most often I was on my own, hence the 6 teeth I lost. I still remember when I was finally big enough to shoot correctly, instead of doing the “granny shot.” (heaving the ball up underhand and hoping it would get somewhere near the hoop).

When we were lucky, Mr. Jones and my dad would come and join us, and we’d get a real game going. I still remember the resentment growing in me during the games they wanted to get “serious” and play two on two (with Josh and David). I would sit on the sidelines, grumpily thinking it wasn’t fair to be a girl, and a miniature one at that.

During the long summer days, we would walk to the park—a big group of us, making our way down the alley and through the little trail that led to the “Red Barn” park (the red barn was torn down years ago, but name stuck for a long time). There, most of the time only the boys got to play and the girls were told to go swing on the swings. But every once in awhile they would be one short—and I would gladly jump in.

After a couple of “fun” games, the younger boys would get kicked out, and we would all sit on the ground, watching the big boys play. I watched my father dislocate every one of his fingers over the summers we spent at the park. He would come home and my mom would take a sharp intake of breath and say “Again??”

When I was 12, I decided that enough was enough, and rounded up all the girls in the neighborhood. We created a girl’s basketball team called the “Pacer-ettes.” It didn’t last too long, and mostly just consisted of making matching shirts and hair ribbons. After that, the other’s lost interest, and we didn’t have anyone to play against anyways. The boys just laughed at the hair ribbons.

Finally when I was 14, all the playing with boys paid off, and I practiced with a school team where Mr. Jones was coaching. My daily outfit was a tee-shirt, basketball shorts, white socks up to my knees, and slide sandals. I was never far from my backpack with my Nike’s. Old habits die hard—this is still my favorite outfit (minus the socks). While I never got to play in an official game because I was homeschooled, I practiced every day, and did stats for all of the team’s games. It was a good year.

After that life happened and basketball moved to a back burner as something I enjoyed doing when I had time. Dad and I would go out and “shoot some hoops,” but it became less and less frequent. My skills were put to good use at the youth center, where I could do a nice lay-up in a skirt, but mostly I was needed off the court.

Somewhere in my 20s I realized that it wasn’t basketball that I liked as much as the memories and the time I had with my father. Basketball was a bond between us. It was summer memories of simple times where I lost another tooth and held it up proudly. It was walking home, hand in hand, from the park with my dad.

I remember the first time I finally beat my dad at the game “21.” Dad has very good shooting accuracy, so this was no easy feat. He let me gloat for a week. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I beat him playing one on one, and soon after that he officially “retired” from basketball, saying he was getting old (he was around 60). Every once in awhile he still shoots some hoops with John behind the garage.

I have since moved to Brazil, where futebol (soccer) reigns in the place of basketball. Not many hoops are available, and girls do not wear basketball shorts. Ever. But every once in awhile…I still get a chance. Every once in awhile when I am back in Indiana, I get a game going with some of the kids from the youth center. And they laugh that a white girl can jump.

“ Madison is a city in Jefferson County, Indiana, United States, along the Ohio River. The population was 11,967 at the 2010 census. The city is the county seat of Jefferson County.  In 2006, the majority of Madison’s downtown area was designated the largest contiguous National Historic Landmark in the United States—133 blocks of the downtown area is known as the Madison Historic Landmark District.” –Wikipedia

We started going to Madison, Indiana, to study about my grandfather, John Aaron Coombs. He spent some of his growing up summers with family there, and was related to the rich and famous that made up the high society of Old Madison. My grandmother visited many of the cemeteries there, learning more about a past that was not much talked about. My grandfather’s family were not big talkers.

Some of the nicest places to stay (at a good price as well), are the Indiana State Parks. When I was younger, my family would go tent camping all over Indiana, exploring Turkey Run, McCormick’s Creek, Chain of Lakes, Spring Mill, and Pokagon, where my parents had their honeymoon. As I got older and my mother’s health got worse, we traded in our tent for cabins and inns at State Parks, and soon Clifty Falls, located right outside of Madison, became our favorite.

I remember trips with Grandma were she would bring a bag of presents from the dollar store, and she would let us (Anna and I) pick one each day. Normally our trips to Madison would involved cemeteries (my grandma would put flowers on everyone related to us), visiting historical landmarks like the Lanier home, learning new stuff at the library, and exploring trails in the state park. One evening we’d get to stay with grandma while mom and dad went out on a date.

When grandma passed away, the tradition stuck. They redid the inn with a new pool and hot tub, and a game room where dad would get a bag full of quarters if we were good. There was the marble game in the hallway, the gift shop, the lounge with a fireplace, and the lookout windows. Big poufy chairs sit in front of huge windows that take up most of the wall where you can look out and see the Ohio River and Kentucky. In that big room there is also one of the racing boats from the Madison Regatta, as depicted in the movie “Madison,”  a big stuffed bear, and carved antlers.

Some of our favorite Winzeler traditions are Hinkle’s Hamburgers (http://www.hinkleburger.com ) , where Anna and Dad had their famous 3am run for home fries, the old movie theater, where we are often the only ones there, and Whimsy’s, our favorite store. We love to walk down Main Street, peeking in antique shops, book stores, craft stores, and coffee shops that have mango milkshakes.

Our trip is never complete without trips to the pool, slipping across the hardwood floors, making microwave kettle corn, and exploring some of the great trails at Clifty Falls State Park. But most of all, it is a time to be together and enjoy being a family. We have spent some Christmas’s there, and normally try to take a family vacation there every year (or when Rachel is not in Brazil). It is one of my favorite Winzeler things.

My father’s uncle and my mother’s sister. That is the connection. What started the whole thing off. What led to me. My father’s uncle is James Winzeler. He and his wife, Marie, were missionaries in Port Au Prince, Haiti. While they were serving there, one fall my father came to visit them and help them move to Jeremie, Haiti.

My mother’s sister is named Becky Feldman. She and her husband, Verdon, had four children, and served at the same compound as the Winzelers. My mother took a semester off of college in 1977 to go to Haiti and homeschool her four nieces and nephews. That semester overlapped with the summer that my dad came. And they met.

My mother, Cyndi, knew pretty soon after meeting my father, Jim, that he was supposed to be, indeed, my father. But Jim didn’t get the memo. As the story goes, Cyndi “set her cap” at Jim, and tried everything she could to make him notice her that summer in Haiti. Stories include one involving a red dress and batting eyelashes (my mother watched many old movies, and they always involved a red dress, even if they were in black and white).

My favorite story (that mom tells) is that the missionary housing was on a hill. One evening, Jim walked past Cyndi’s building, so she decided she would take a stroll and just “happen” to pass him by. She began walking quickly to catch up, but with the incline, by the time she caught up, she was running too fast to stop and ran right by him to the bottom of the hill. Dad always listens to mom tell this story with a funny smile on his face. He didn’t have a clue.

Jim went back to Ft. Wayne, Indiana,  where he farmed with his dad, and Cyndi returned to Indianapolis, Indiana, where she finished college at the University of Indianapolis. They basically ended all contact, Cyndi, out of frustration, and Jim out of cluelessness and just being a guy. Two later, in 1981, Cyndi was contemplating joining the Navy. Knowing that Jim had served in the Navy, she called him up and asked for advice. He told her that she shouldn’t join the military, but that she should meet up with him. In six months he proposed, three months later they were married, and 11 months after that: me.

Love You Forever

by Robert Munsch

A mother held her new baby and very slowly rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while she held him, she sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.

The baby grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was two years old, and he ran all around the house. He pulled all the books off the shelves. He pulled all the food out of the refrigerator and he took his mother’s watch and flushed it down the toilet. Sometimes his mother would say, “this kid is driving me CRAZY!”

But at night time, when that two-year-old was quiet, she opened the door to his room, crawled across the floor, looked up over the side of his bed; and if he was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. While she rocked him she sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.

The little boy grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was nine years old. And he never wanted to come in for dinner, he never wanted to take a bath, and when grandma visited he always said bad words. Sometimes his mother wanted to sell him to the zoo!

But at night time, when he was asleep, the mother quietly opened the door to his room, crawled across the floor and looked up over the side of the bed. If he was really asleep, she picked up that nine-year-old boy and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while she rocked him she sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.

The boy grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was a teenager. He had strange friends and he wore strange clothes and he listened to strange music. Sometimes the mother felt like she was in a zoo!

But at night time, when that teenager was asleep, the mother opened the door to his room, crawled across the floor and looked up over the side of the bed. If he was really asleep she picked up that great big boy and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. While she rocked him she sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.

That teenager grew. He grew and he grew and he grew. He grew until he was a grown-up man. He left home and got a house across town. But sometimes on dark nights the mother got into her car and drove across town.  If all the lights in her son’s house were out, she opened his bedroom window, crawled across the floor, and looked up over the side of his bed. If that great big man was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while she rocked him she sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.

Well, that mother, she got older. She got older and older and older. One day she called up her son and said, “You’d better come see me because I’m very old and sick.” So her son came to see her. When he came in the door she tried to sing the song. She sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always…

But she couldn’t finish because she was too old and sick. The son went to his mother. He picked her up and rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And he sang this song:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my Mommy you’ll be.

When the son came home that night, he stood for a long time at the top of the stairs. Then he went into the room where his very new baby daughter was sleeping. He picked her up in his arms and very slowly rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while he rocked her he sang:

I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.

(And now I read this book to my students in Brazil…)

I love you mom. You are pretty fantastic. Happy 55th Birthday. I wish you the bestest! No driving across town to peek over my bed now–that is creepy. Although you can fly to Brazil…

Thank you for showing me faithfulness, loyalty, and fidelity.
Thank you for showing me how a family works, and doesn’t work, and then apologizes, talks it through, and works again.
Thank you for showing me that a promise is a promise.
Thank you for having me 11 months after you got married.
Thank you for having a vision for me, and giving me an education which meant learning how to think and find information on my own.
Thank you for wanting and encouraging one thing for me: that I would find God’s will for my life and pursue it. I am here in Brasil because of God’s grace and your blessing.
Thank you dad, for being there. For hugs and I love yous and twirling a little girl around and telling her she is beautiful.
Thank you mom for being with me. By my side as I learned cursive in kindergarten to the passengers side as I happily drove you places.
Thank you for creating a place I can come home to, and know I will be spoiled by lots of ice cream and omlets.