We want to celebrate the life of Mary and Bill Zdeblick – two people who understood very well that there was a time and season for everything.
Spring of life: The time early in their lives demanded a lot of work and sacrifice – Mary grew up with a father who became chronically ill during her childhood, had to help raise her 3 brothers and take care of the house while her mother worked nights to support the family, and later feared for her brothers as they were all in combat in WWII. Yet she had great stories of the April Fool's Day jokes they played on each other, simple active games in the street like kick the can, days of going to dances and singing in the choir. She described childhood as a happy time. Bill was one of 12 children, whose mother died when he was only 15 years. He helped to raise the younger ones, and became the primary breadwinner when he returned from WWII to find that his father too had passed away. He tells of stories of waking up early on cold mornings to put coal in the stove so the house would be warm for the others; of delighting when his mother would make a huge loaf of bread and put it on the bed to cool, so he and his sibs could grab crusty warm pieces from it; of taking the trolley and then hitchhiking to the north side of Chicago with his two best buddies so they could caddy. Their generation got the double challenges of the depression and WWII, yet they tackled those without complaining. Their early season was one of hard work planting, yet savoring the joy of everyday blessings and realizing the value of family and friends,.
Summer of life: Bill and Mary wedded late by 1950's standards – they were 32 years old. Looking at their old photographs, it was clear they were each attractive, very social, and had lots of opportunities to marry. They each had a higher purpose, though: after the war, my father supported his younger siblings, went to the Art Institute on the GI bill, then started a photography studio. My mother also worked to help her parents, then became a nurse. She was very involved with her church. They waited for the right time, but also the right person. By looking at their early dating photographs, it was clear they were passionate about each other once they met. Theirs was a very special love, made so because of their commitment to each other. The only regret I ever heard them say was that they met each other 'so late in life.' They were married for 55 years before death parted them.
So how did two poor children of immigrants manage to keep their love, as well as raise 6 children who all went on to get advanced degrees, find life mates, and raise their own children? They anchored this productive season of their lives with faith and traditions. They were very clear to make sure their activities represented their deepest values. For example, every Sunday morning they had all 6 of us kids dressed and pressed and in the car by 8 am to drive to our Ukrainian Catholic Church. We sat for hours of our childhood during Ukrainian mass, where we did not understand a word. (The first song you heard today was similar to what we heard at church). At the time, we felt corralled into it, but looking back, those songs and chants grounded each of us very deeply. We had other "weekly traditions" of going to the library, to Ukrainian dance lessons, to sports and scouts. My mother insisted we all learn to play both clefs of the piano. How she got us all to practice each day, before we could go out to play, and without killing each other over who got to the piano first, I will never know. She taught me more about dealing with children than all my years of studying Child Psychiatry, but I still was never as good as her with this task.
There was a time for everything. This included a time for having fun, playing, giving thanks and celebrating. Friday was always "Family Night," where we would be treated to a pizza and root beer. We'd play a board game, watch a movie, or as we got older, have 3 tables of competitive pinochle games. Saturdays were for Dad to putter in the basement – his haven – where he would make wooden toys for the kids, cabinets and bookshelves for my mother. He had a drawing board, and created wonderful calligraphy scrolls for all sorts of celebrations. Later in the evening, it was always the Ed Sullivan show or Gunsmoke. Yearly traditions were also special. Each Advent, we would make a family Christmas card. Dad would get us all to generate an idea, then he would make the silk screen, and we would all help put the paper under the press, take the cards to dry, help to address and stamp envelopes. Lent found us all around a table creating Ukrainian Easter Eggs. Fred's initiation into our family was to spend a weekend making Easter eggs with us, and we have shared this tradition with many good friends. Mom would always host the extended family for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinners, after which we all played charades and "collected" the laughs of our elders.
This busy summer season was rooted in traditions and routines. My mother once told me that having limits gave one a sense of freedom. She figured that out in her early 30's. I am still contemplating all the wisdom in that phrase.
Autumn of life:
After raising those kids, paying off the mortgage, and burying the dog, my parents had ten blessed years to just be together. They moved to Florida, where they bowled, golfed, painted, did stained glass, played bridge, fished, and enjoyed their new neighbors and friends. But they also renewed their marriage. They attended a Catholic retreat program for married couples called Crusillo, which became a very important connection for them. The song, "De Colores" was sung at these retreats as a theme song – the time of springtime and flowers. My father made a banner, seen here, with a poem on it inspired by this retreat. After losing all of their parents, and having all of their 6 children busy with their own lives, they made a commitment to the future together. During this season, there was much time for rejoicing and celebrating, as each of their children married, and 15 grandchildren were welcomed into the family. My Parents delighted in each of their grandchildren, playing on the floor with them, rocking them, singing to them, painting with them, or collecting shells on the beach. They gave unconditional love, and tried to temper their feisty children's parenting skills. They presided over the yearly family reunions, often putting on skits for us, or setting up family games. They sang the same songs to the grandkids that they raised us on:
"We ain't got a barrel of money"
"You are my sunshine"
"You're the end of the rainbow"
They said the same things to the grandkids that they taught us:
"It's only money."
"If you can't say anything good about someone, then say nothing."
"Too soon we get old, too late we get smart."
"Take time to smell the flowers"
The autumn of their life was calm, gathering in the rich harvests of family, friends, hobbies and travels.
Winter of Life: When I think of their last 10 years, which they spent with us in Denver, in some ways they were the most difficult for them, but in many ways I became the closest to them then, and saw the true strength and luster of which they were made. Although it never seemed fair to me that such good people would have to suffer at the end of their lives, they each had their own trials to bear. My mother developed a difficult neurological disease where her awareness and social skills remained long after her ability to physically move, take care of herself, or even talk. She who had cared for so many others was forced to be dependent on others, and not "do" anything, but just "be." This could be a tough task for my mother, who was a very active and doing kind of person. Yet she dealt with this challenge with a grace and peacefulness that was amazing to me. Other than once wondering which she would prefer, Parkinson's or Alzheimers (she had symptoms of both), she seldom complained. Sometimes as I watched her during her 5 years in nursing care, I felt as though I was watching Purgatory before my eyes, as she became ever kinder, gentler, and still able to enjoy a funny moment. The hardest thing for her was being apart from my dad. "It's not the way God wanted it" she would cry as he left to go back to their apartment. It tore him up too for a long time. But, he faithfully visited, sang to her, read to her, fed her, just "was" with her. My dad didn't lose as many abilities, but he had his own illnesses to deal with. He had a knee replaced and called himself the "bionic man." When he heard he had lung cancer and was told that the appt to start chemotherapy would be in 3 weeks, he told me to give away all of his summer clothes – shorts, golf shirts, etc. My dad very seldom gave things away, preferring to use them till they were worn out. I was surprised, but he insisted. Later I found out he thought that he had only 3 weeks to live, and later was very perplexed as to why he had no more summer clothes. He actually sailed through chemotherapy, and lived much longer than the prognosis, mostly to take care of my mother. I will never forget the week before she died, when one of the Aspen Siesta nurses and I helped my dad crawl into bed next to my mother's shrunken and stiff body, and he held her and told her how much he loved and cherished her, and how beautiful she was. Once she left, he wasn't sure how to live "as only a single man." He told me that he would wait and see if God had another task for him. He ended up giving a bit more to some of his children and grandchildren during that year, but once that was finished, he was fine to let go. He seemed to sleep a lot, but when I teased him about it, he was very clear, "I am not sleeping, I am doing inside work." He would tell me about various decision points in his life, and how he felt he had made good decisions. During his last days and months, there was a deep sense of peacefulness and joy that surrounded my dad, almost palpably. He still made people around him feel important, cherished, loved. He knew what was coming, and much as he loved life to the very last drop, he was also at peace with letting go. The winter of life seems still and lifeless, but very important work went on under the surface to hone Bill and Mary into perfect spiritual beings, who could still savor, enjoy and give life, despite having left all abilities and possessions far behind.
What did I learn from them that I want to cherish?
Their faith. They prayed everyday, and they lived their faith. They weren't perfect, but they each displayed how "keeping with it" over a lifetime honed them each to a radiance and peace that is priceless.
Their love. They stayed close together through all the good years, but especially through all the difficult ones too.
Their joy. During each of my parent's last days, a true radiance of joy and peace would emanate from them as you drew near. They truly enjoyed just being.
Their singing and laughter. They sang lots of songs, on car rides, at bedtimes, when they were happy, when they were frustrated. When my mom was pretty ill with dementia and could no longer talk, she could still remember the words and melody to old Ukrainian songs. My dad joked to his last day – when the good nurses were worried about his weight loss, and told him he had lost 14 pounds in 2 weeks, he patted his belly, which used to be a little padded, and said "whoo hoo!"
Their belief in education. It was a mantra – "get all you can get. Learn your whole life. You only get old when you stop learning. "
Their strength. To lose parents traumatically and suddenly, and keep going. To deal with chronic illness in the family, and keep going. To manage all the needs of 6 boisterous children, and keep going.
Their love of friends and family – always time for "coffee and" and a conversation at the table. Always making sure that everyone felt included and had a good time.
My mom's love of nurturing– vegetable and flower gardens, pets, family.
My dad's love of creating – building projects, paintings, Christmas cards, photos, Ukrainian Easter eggs.
Because Dad was more with us at the end, I will miss little quirks - My dad calling out "hello to house" and saying he was "slow but sure." The twinkle in his eyes. His calling me his angel. His saying, "Where there's a Willie, there's a way." His hearing aids squeaking – the "grandpa locating system." His numerous boxes of pencils.
People to be cherished. May they now rest and enjoy being together again, and once in a while help us out. We still need all their love and lessons. The world is a less loved place without them.
Marianne Wamboldt
