Sometimes you need things rather than just thoughts.
― Patrick Ness, The Rest of Us Just Live Here

Decades before author and journalist Patrick Ness argued for the necessity of things, American poet William Carlos Williams (I still can’t get my head wrapped around parents who would name their son William Williams) wrote that there are “no ideas but in things.” This line from his 1927 poem, Paterson, became a kind of credo for 20th century poetry. That is, he argued for a “direct treatment of the thing,” a contrast and reaction to the 18th and 19th century writers’ affinity to symbolism and abstraction. Ground an idea in the concrete, Williams contended, rather than float it, untethered, into abstraction.

For years as I taught modern poetry, I sought to help students understand this notion: that all abstractions are built upon concrete foundations; that what we know and feel stems from our experiences with the sensory world. It goes without saying that we learn to understand “hot” as children by directly experiencing it–generally after we’ve been warned not to do so. For the word “hot” is an abstraction that only carries real meaning once we’ve experienced it, that is, once we’ve felt it. “Hot” lives first in things–in steaming mugs of hot chocolate and bowls of soup ladeled right from the pot, on stove tops and radiators–before it lives as an idea. Both Ness and Williams understood this.

For years before my mom died, she urged her children and grandchildren to take things of family and sentimental value home with them. She didn’t push these things on us; rather she gently urged them out the door and into new homes. We all have pieces we cherish of the Welch and Zorn legacy in our own homes. Now as we prepare our family home for sale, once again, we look to the things that have defined every room, those things that carry so many experiences and memories with them. And as we’ve encouraged our children to find these things that hold such experiences and memories in them, I’ve often been surprised at their choices.

One of my nieces wanted the little white clock that lived on the ledge in the upstairs bathroom for decades. It’s not antique, nor has it been passed down from either my mom’s or dad’s families. But for her, it’s a glorious reminder of all the times she spent at her grandparents’ house and slept in an upstairs bedroom. Or take my nephew’s choice: the carved wooden bowl that sat on the coffee table for years. Underneath its lid, one could find real treasure: peanut M & Ms, holiday candy, assorted treats. Every grandkid undoubtedly has fond memories of asking–begging–for permission to sample the goods in the wooden candy bowl, which never disappointed.

For years, my mom collected and painted Goofus glass. In the early 20th century, this pressed glass was decorated with unfired enamel paint by several popular glass factories. Over the years, we’ve all been gifted pieces of Goofus glass: bowls and plates, vases and trays. In the whole world of vintage glassware, it’s worth relatively little. To us, however, it’s priceless, for it testifies to the many hours that my mom spent repainting it, lovingly restoring each piece to the glory she believed that it deserved.

The paperweight on the desk in the den, the countless trophies from decades of homing pigeon races, the bevy of small cobalt blue glass birds, the gallery of family photos in the upstairs’ hallway and scattered throughout the bedrooms, the blonde cedar chest, the books (a legion of books!). the envelopes of letters (love letters from my dad, letters from family and friends), the dining room table around which we sat for some of the best hours of our lives–these are, I know, simply things. If all of them were to disappear, we would still remember the memories they carry. Still, as vivid as these memories are, sometimes you just need the real thing. Sometimes, you need to pick it up, to run your fingers along its edges and over its surface, to hold it solidly in your hands.

As we gather for my mom’s memorial service this weekend, we will all gather at our family home once again. My sisters and I will encourage those who haven’t found their own special thing to select one. Our memories may be abstract ideas that live in our heads and hearts, but how well they first live in things. Now and in the years to come, we need these things. These are memories with skin on, so to speak; these are the concrete objects through which the Welch and Zorn legacy will live on.

Marcia Lee Welch

January 10, 1943-February 2, 2023

How can you measure the worth of a life? Over the course of his lifetime, my father wrote love letters and tucked birthday and anniversary poems into the corner of my mother’s vanity mirror. But from the very start of their courtship, he knew that even his finest words could never begin to bear witness to the remarkable life force of Marcia Lee Welch. He knew this, and I know this, too. For I’ve carried my finest words in my heart and have written them into letters, cards, poems and blog posts for decades. For days now, I’ve begun this post with fits and starts, and words fail me.

But my father once claimed that “Words have no other choice. They have to risk space.” And so I begin, allowing my words to risk space.

For as long as I can remember, I told my mom–in conversation and in writing–that I wanted to be the woman she was when I grew up. Of course, I’m still growing up, still hoping to become that woman in the years I have left. In my brighter moments, I find bits and pieces of my mom in me in ordinary ways. I clean and fold pieces of used aluminum foil and stack them neatly in the drawer next to the stove, just as she did (and her mother before her did). I continue to argue that her frozen cherry salad is much better with nuts, just as she did (while she graciously served a nut-free salad as well). I say–much to the chagrin of my family and former students–things like, “Well, don’t get your blood in a bubble” (something she regularly said and that’s always stuck with me). Like her, I haven’t yet met a cat I didn’t like–and couldn’t love. A frozen coke from McDonalds is the right drink for all occasions, and a cookie that disappoints with raisins instead of chocolate chips is just wrong.

Sharing my mom’s love of a good chocolate chip cookie is one thing, but sharing the other attributes that made her who she was is quite another. Whereas my dad lived his life on a rather public stage–in classrooms and auditoriums, through published words and speeches–my mom lived on a more intimate, domestic stage where her primary focus was her family and her neighbors, She hosted neighborhood coffee parties, held holiday teas for our Park School teachers, provided beds and meals for visiting poets, foreign exchange students, and friends-of-friends. One of my treasured memories is our family living room filled to capacity with my son’s UNK football buddies, some sprawled on the floor sleeping off their food comas. When an Iowa community college student of mine was considering a four-year college to attend, he remembered how I’d spoken about my family and the university in Kearney, NE. “I’ve decided to attend UNK and play tennis there,” he announced one day. I gave him my mom and dad’s address and phone number, and the rest is history. My mom offered him a home-away-from-home during his college years and corresponded with him up until weeks before her death. He is one of countless others whom my mom adopted into a family that grew gloriously larger and more diverse over time.

A couple of years ago, I discovered that my mom and dad had hosted poet Mary Oliver in their home. I couldn’t imagine the winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize sleeping in my former bedroom and eating around our family dining room table. Stunned, I asked, “What was she like?” My mom simply smiled and said, “She was one of our favorites, a really humble and genuine person.” In truth, my mom treated all who crossed her door as if they’d won the Pulitzer Prize. She listened with intensity, convincing you that she heard you, that her time was wholly yours. When you left her presence or hung up the phone, you always felt as though you’d been understood and loved. You felt like a million bucks.

When my mom’s health confined her to her home, she continued to host a steady stream of family, neighbors, and visitors. I suspect most of us came with the same hope: that we could offer our love and leave with some of hers to sustain us until the next visit. She was the consumate cheerleader and advocate for all those who needed an encouraging word or nudge towards their dreams. When you left her house, you walked with a real spring in your step, and the world opened itself as an oyster before you. From her maroon recliner, her outreach was just as powerful and wide as my dad’s. Each day, she Facebook messaged countless people all over the country. When she began to keep me informed about the health and circumstances of some of my former high school friends, I once asked her how she knew these things. “I message them,” she said. Astonished, I responded, “I didn’t know that you knew how to do that on your iPad.” And she gave me a look as if to say, “But of course! It’s the 21st century, after all!”

Over the course of her lifetime, she became my dad’s first and best reader. When he’d finally revised a poem to his liking, he’d give it to her and wait expectedly for her response. After my dad died, she became my first and best reader, too. Packing up some things from my family home last week, I found scrapbooks of all the writing I’d sent her, Inside were many pieces I didn’t even remember that I’d written. But there they were, lovingly archived in homemade scrapbooks. Each time my mom would tell me that she could hear my dad in my poems, that my imagery reminded her so much of his, I wept in gratitude.

For her parents and sister, her husband and children, her grandchildren and extended family, her neighbors and friends, Marcia Welch was undeniably one of God’s greatest gifts. For 89 years, she was His hands and feet on earth, offering love and comfort to so many. For 89 years, the world was simply a better place because she was in it. Undoubtedly, there is much heavenly rejoicing as she stands before God who welcomes her, saying, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

So, how can I measure the worth of my mom’s life? In the end, I really can’t. But I can live out my days grateful of the many ways she’s loved and changed and touched me. I can pour myself out into others as she did. And I can risk space, courageously using my words and deeds to make the world a better place while I’m in it.