Tag Archive for: strong women

Brother, lost and found

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The last time I saw my oldest brother Kevin was the morning after my daughter’s wedding, this past June. Brad and I hosted a brunch for family, and Kevin and his new wife, Bobbie were able to join us before they took off for their several-day drive back to their home in Lincoln, Nebraska.

It was rather amazing that Kevin came to the wedding, because, well, as we’ve always said, “Kevin is Kevin.” In other words, you just never knew whether he would show up or not. But, when it came to the BIG events, Kevin was there, sliding into home last minute. And when he made an appearance, Kevin was all in.

When a week after the official wedding RSVP deadline passed and we had not heard from Kevin as to whether they could join us for the joyous occasion, I tried to reach out to him. I texted, I called, and left messages. Finally, days later, I heard from him.

“Hey, sis, what’s up?” Kevin asked.

“Well, we’re hoping that you both will be able to come join us at Kyle’s wedding on June 4,” I said.

“Yeah, I think we can do that.”

Not exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for.

“That’s awesome,” I said. “So, part of the RSVP was to choose what you would like to eat at the reception.”

“Okay, kiddo (I loved that nickname) what are my choices?”

Without hesitation, I responded, “At this stage, Mcdonald’s.”

I’ll forever miss his hearty laugh, and his big shit-eating grin I imagined from the other end.

Kevin, always the protective big brother. He’s 7 and I’m 2 in this picture

On Saturday, September 10, Kevin left us just as he made his appearances throughout the years, suddenly, without fanfare and on his own terms.
He was just 66 years old.

Kevin filled his shoes well as the oldest, and as the youngest sister, I think he felt compelled to teach me important life skills throughout the years. How to survive guerilla warfare that involved him digging a massive hole in the ground and standing on the far side of its opening, covered by weeds and grass, to see if I’d actually fall in. Kevin and my other older siblings, Karen and Jeff, spiced up the situation to challenge me to outrun our visiting friend, Gwen Thees out to the garden.

I won and lost if you get the picture. I’ll never forget the images of all of them standing above me, as I was literally up to my shoulders in a hole.

This was the infamous Radio Flyer, before the grand adventure that follows…

Or, rigging up the Radio Flyer wagon filled with library books, tethered by a rope to the minibike Kevin drove like a madman to get to the bookmobile. Kevin and older brother Jeff were on the minibike, younger brother Greg and I were wedged in with the books in the wagon, youngest brother Gordie was tied up behind the wagon on his tricycle (who thought up this scheme????) and older sister Karen rode along on her bike to supervise. We lost Gordie at the first turn and turned him over to the neighbors. Soon after, as the wagon wove back and forth, Greg had a look in his eye that said, “It’s either you or me” and bailed out of the wagon. With the shift in the weight distribution, the wagon flipped, and somehow, I was trapped underneath, books scattering all over, and my back getting dragged against the asphalt. I still have remnants of scars from the small pebbles and black tar of the hot country road.

And then there was the time that he rebelled and ran from mom as she came after him with the wooden handled hairbrush that she whacked us with when we got out of line. I’ll never forget the rest of us, standing looking out the front window as he ran, cheering, “Run, Kevin, run!!” He taught me to be a survivor, and that sometimes there was a path to resistance.

Kevin enlisted in the Army and left for boot camp soon after graduating from high school. I was only in 8th grade but felt his absence every night at the dinner table, and when the cookies all disappeared, we didn’t have Kevin to collectively blame anymore. I remember a time when he came for a visit when I was a senior in high school. He was shooting pool in the basement, the glow of the fluorescent light suspended above offering a halo effect around the table. I sat on the basement steps, my hands cupped under my chin, lamenting that I couldn’t wait until I turned eighteen.

“Wait a minute, sis. Don’t be in such a hurry. When you turn eighteen, you’re going to want to be 21, and when you’re 21, you’re going to wish you were 18 all over again.”

Kevin’s wisdom was the greatest lesson in just enjoying the moment that I ever got.

Then he proceeded to teach me how to shoot pool. Left-handed. I never realized that, as a southpaw, Kevin taught me his way, until years later when Brad noticed while we were out with friends playing 8-ball.

As I got older, Kevin taught me important social and gaming skills. Throwing darts at his local watering hole, the Winking Lizard in Cleveland. Being able to hold my own, whether in a crowd or in a crowd drinking beer. How to come prepared for a white-water rafting trip when it rains all weekend. Sleeping upright in a car never felt so good.

When the kids came, Kevin became the “fun uncle” (our son Ian’s observations) and since he was working in Toledo for a time, was never more present in my life than during their early childhood years. Or, should I say, never more present up until that point. When Claire died, I’ll never forget his huge bear hug when he made it into town for the funeral. He always had such big hugs.

Months later, we all gathered together as a family to celebrate the nuptials of younger brother Greg and his Lisa. Our hearts were still collectively breaking over our loss of Claire, but, true to form, we held on to each other, told stories, and rallied. It’s the Zeigler way.

Greg and Lisa’s wedding, September 2000.

Kevin moved to Lexington, then to Colorado, and eventually to Nebraska. We didn’t see or hear from Kevin much when he was out West, but when mom and dad died, he came home.
I’m so glad he made it for our daughter’s wedding. We had one more chance to joke together, take pictures together, and tell stories together.

With my brothers celebrating my daughter Kyle’s wedding to Will Letton on June 4, 2022.

You just never knew if Kevin would show up, but when he did, he was all in.

We lost Kevin way too soon.

As we gathered on October 15 to memorialize Kevin, my siblings and I, along with Kevin’s wife Bobbie and extended family, shared our collective remembrances. The stories rolled, as did our laughter and tears. We searched through old photo albums, recalling shared adventures.

Throughout the weekend, I felt like my memories became full color as we sifted through black-and-white photos.

I’ll never forget what he taught me.

And I still shoot pool left-handed.

Rest in peace Kevin.

Anonymous

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“For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” -Virginia Woolf

I discovered this quote while doing research for my latest proposed biography for young readers. My subject, even though she has a significant place in history, is unknown. This woman was the first to serve in her role. This woman stood toe-to-toe with men and held her own. This woman dared to buck the system to accomplish what she believed is right. This woman’s story has never been told.

I hope to change that.

I recently took to Twitter to begin an ongoing campaign to promote women in history. I searched through various online portals, such as “this day in history” and “this day in women’s history.” My campaign ended after three days. The ratio of noted accomplishments by men outranked women’s significantly. It is as if we’ve taken the root word of history literally. HIS story.

I hope to change that.

I’ve been blessed to share the life journeys of three amazing women, who have made their own mark in the world.

For years, no one knew that Carolyn Keene was not the actual writer of the Nancy Drew Mystery Stories. There is no Carolyn Keene. The original author of the teenage sleuth stories was none other than Mildred Wirt Benson. As the very first ghostwriter for the series, Millie was indeed anonymous until her role was made public through a lawsuit. The legal action was filed by the former publisher of the series, Grosset & Dunlap, when the creators of the series, the Stratemeyer Syndicate, made a business decision to contract with Simon & Schuster to publish future Nancy Drew stories. When Millie showed up at the trial in New York City in 1980, Harriet Stratemeyer greeted Millie with a curt, “I thought you were dead.” Nope, very much alive, and no longer anonymous.

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Virginia Hamilton was the most honored author of children’s literature ever. EVER! Virginia was the first African American, male, or female, to receive the Newbery Medal, in 1975 for her groundbreaking novel, M.C. Higgins, The Great. Virginia’s 41 books for younger readers garnered every major award established for authors. Virginia was the first children’s book author to receive the MacArthur Foundation Fellowship, otherwise known as the “Genius Grant.” Her body of work was recognized through the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award and the Hans Christian Andersen Award for Writing. Yet, her books have been buried among the stacks in libraries, her stories rarely shared with today’s young readers.

As a 22-year-old intern with the Miami Herald, sports journalist Christine Brennan made her way through the doors of the locker room of the Minnesota Vikings. It was previously all-male territory, even though a federal judge had ordered TWO years before that female journalists should have equal access to locker rooms. Christine continues to make her mark in the world of sports journalism, often the “go-to” whenever there is controversy or significant news with athletes. Yet, for all the doors that Christine has opened during her years as a sports reporter, a columnist with USA Today, and commentator on ABC News, her story was buried as a lead.

We are on the brink of Women’s History Month. Why just a month when we collectively try and create awareness of amazing female scientists, writers, artists, civil rights activists, educators, and business leaders? Why is there only a month to pull back the curtain on these anonymous makers of history?

Why not make every day a chance to share HER story?

I hope to change that.

Back in the saddle again

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One of my favorite movies, Sleepless in Seattle, features the Gene Autry tune, Back in the Saddle Again, as the widower Tom Hanks decides it’s time to start dating.

The phrase reflects one’s desire to get back into doing something you had before, whether from injury or self-imposed time-out.

In my case, both apply.

My last post reflected my overwhelmed state of mind. I wrote it on the heels of our 18th annual Claire’s Day and several months filled with various writerly and literacy advocate commitments.

I was burnt out and felt a need to recharge.

Well, it’s interesting how life just kind of helps you figure things out.

In my case, it all began over the Fourth of July weekend. My right foot began to bother me. It started to nag at me, a dull, continuous pain. Then it began screaming after walking the golf course in bad shoes.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

My husband, Brad, had presented me with the gift of playing in the Marathon Classic pro-am the Wednesday following the holiday weekend.

Understand that for me, playing in a pro-am was one of ten things I wrote down that I wanted to accomplish years ago during a team-building exercise during my sales management days. It was on my bucket list before there ever was such a thing. It represented my desire to get my golf game to the point that I could hold my own on the course.

The LPGA Marathon Classic supports charities that benefit children. Last year a portion of the proceeds from the tournament were given to Claire’s Day. As our way of showing our gratitude, Brad purchased two slots in the pro-am at the tournament host course, Highland Meadows.

But I had this throbbing foot. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to play, to fulfill this dream I’ve had for years. I called a friend of mine, a retired podiatrist. We both kind of figured that it was a stress fracture, brought on by bad shoes and over-exercising. His advice? “Get a golf cart if you can, wear the most supportive golf shoes you have, and have fun.”

I didn’t sleep well the night before the tournament. I felt like a kid going to Cedar Point amusement park the next day. I finally got up around 4:30 a.m., made myself some coffee, and sat out on the deck with my confused four-year-old Labrador, Luna. As I sipped my coffee and iced my foot, a sense of calm came over me. I knew that it was all going to be okay. I knew I was going to play well. And I felt so grateful to have the opportunity.

The experience was surreal, from the moment I met our pro, Mirim Lee, from South Korea, and our playing partners. When I got up to the first tee, I took a deep breath, settled into my stance, and struck the ball perfectly. The team used my drive, as they did often that day. And, as I was lead putter, I sank a number of putts, saving the team from having to do so. We ended up at a respectful 13 under.

Later that afternoon I got the official diagnosis, a boot, and the prognosis of 6-8 weeks of heeling from my new podiatrist.

So, I’ve spent the last 7 weeks icing, elevating, and hobbling along in my boot. I’ve been humbled by being pushed around in a wheelchair at our zoo and museum during a family visit. I’ve not been able to golf, walk my dog or bike.

Brad calls me his “Energizer Bunny.”

My batteries didn’t die. They were cruelly pulled from me.

For those of you who know me, it’s been hell.

But, for those of you who know me well, you know that I didn’t just sit.

I reflected. I meditated. I healed. And, I must admit, I binge-watched This is Us.

I wrote.

Through this process, I’ve discovered a subject that is so perfectly reflective of my experience that I can’t wait to share it with you.

But that will come in time.

For now, I’m celebrating being back in the saddle again.