Connie Elizabeth Weaver

My Life – As I Knew It

Books and chocolate, chocolate and books – equally loved by me, but not to be devoured at the same time. You knew that. All part of the rules, if you borrowed a book from me. Thou shalt not eat while reading. Nor bring any liquid near the written word; no tea, wine, coffee, bath water or tears. Yes, I would have loved to have indulged myself, but practice here a bit of self control. Also, you will use a bookmark – no strip of bacon to hold your place, no propping or tenting the book, no folding it over.

Having said this, if there are any books left now from my collection, take one or a dozen and think of me as you read.

Use my obit or the program from this service as a bookmark.

Now to the stuff I’m supposed to tell you. Many of you know me as well as I, so feel free to nap if you’d like.

I made my appearance on the 9th of July, 1944; a bit late for the celebration of the 4th, about a year early to be a “baby boomer.” Born in Nampa, Idaho, in the same hospital as all my siblings, none of us ever lived there. We lived in Caldwell. The youngest of the children of Elizabeth and Harry Weaver, I knew from the get-go, I was the favorite.

My grandmother, Blanche Rozilla VanSlyke, librarian of the Nampa Public Library from 1929 to 1956, literally gave me the love of reading every birthday and holiday. I eventually inherited her stash of books, which included The Complete Work of George Eliot (18 volumes), Idylls of the King (bound in white leather), Paradise Lost, and Little Women and lesser known Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott. I found Little Men on my own. She identified many of the books with either her maiden name of Prescott (pronounced like the town in Arizona) and the year she received them –1895 or 1896.

My mother became my first teacher, helping me to read early. This she did for most of the five-year-olds in Baker, Oregon when she opened a kindergarten in our home.

I recall Baker as my first home, moving there as a two-year-old. My first friend, Mary Peterson, lived across the street in a huge brick house with a stone wall around half the block. She and I remain friends to this day. She’s still almost a year older, no longer a Catholic, but involved in her community in California and in the life of her daughter who is an opera singer. Mary writes stories about her life, as I do, but they are as different as we are still. Hers involve nuns and priests (there were several in her father’s family) and an aunt who was with the foreign service.

Just after I finished the fourth grade at North Baker Elementary, my dad took a job as a truck driver in Boise, Idaho, moving Mom, my brother, Wendell, and me to a huge town with murders every day. So, I exaggerate. Baker, a town of 10,000 (then and now) seemed a safehaven.

Everything changed that summer. My sister Carol, college bound to Eugene soon, stayed in Baker the rest of the summer, and my 18-year-old sister Karen married Jim Smith the day I turned 10. I never saw that coming! My big day became theirs; I even missed their wedding. Oh, I saw them come out of the sanctuary where I guarded their guest book, and heard my sister say, “Oh, my, we forgot Connie.” Stupid day! After their reception and their zipping away to New Mexico in their jam-packed little Studebaker, my mom surprised me with a birthday party with all my friends. But she served a store-bought cake instead of homemade. Still a stupid day until today when I forgive them all.

My life in Boise turned out much better than expected. I attended South Jr. High in 7th grade, then North for 8th and 9th and graduated from Boise High in 1962. I met new friends who still love me and I them, despite our quirks. The nine girls in our gang (minus two who died too young) get together a few times a year; the twins (Carolyn and Marilyn) I met in 7th grade, keep in touch; the class of ’62, the people I knew through 31 years at Boise Cascade, Boise State, The Cabin, Garden City Library, Boise Art Museum, neighbors, volunteers, writers, and readers surround me. I managed to gather friends like dust bunnies and I can’t (nor do I want) shake them.

And my family, albeit more gone than here, YOU made me the happiest, fulfilled woman I could be.

My folks loved me unconditionally. My dad died at 59 years old when I was 22 and living in Wyoming; my mom – bless her heart – stayed until I’d retired and she was nearly 97. By then I’d been back home in Boise for over three decades; I brought my three boys to live with her for 8 months after deciding Wyoming and snow and big belt-buckles were not for me. We then rented a mobile home until my mom helped me buy a home in Boise’s Northend where I lived for 35 years.

My mom, my sister, Carol, my niece, Kristin, my cousin Celia, were great traveling companions. Oh, the places we would go!

My sons, Rob, Joe, and Tony gave me joy – after they took turns scaring the hell out of me many times. They grew into fine men and loved me for who I became after leaving their dad. I don’t apologize for that; as I’ve said many times, he and I lived longer apart than we would have together. As it turned out, he died at 73, leaving a trail of six or perhaps seven wives.

Rob gave me more technical support than I could understand, and I needed him to live closer to show me. He also gave me my only grandchildren – Ben and Kate – and my daughter-in-law, Dianna, the one I could love as a daughter.

Joe gave me a life of nursing skills, know-how, and wonder. Together we wondered about lots of things, worked them out, and moved on to other challenges; always with love and companionship. He was always willing to play.

Tony gave me opportunities to see things differently. I looked for him in picket lines around Boise Cascade (not there); he felt the plight of the mis-understood; he didn’t cut his hair for 14 years, yet when he came home for his grandmother’s funeral with short hair; his opinions showed me much about my own.

Later in my life, my boys became more important to me as the

Parkinson’s took away the independence I enjoyed so much. They spent time with me, in person – sometimes until I said Go Home, Please! Or on the phone when I needed to hear their voices. Rob and Tony spent time with Joe when I couldn’t. They understood how much it hurt me not to have Joe with me all the time – and helped him become more independent as well.

I loved my family – my kids, sisters, brother, and brothers-in-law and all the kids that came with them. Cousins became important just as their parents had been earlier in my lifetime.

And friends … have been the best in every situation. I love you all. I have been so lucky in my life to have each of you.

I now, as usual, I’ve gone on too long. Greet each other, enjoy, and remember me as you will. You’ve made me happy for so many years. Thanks for everything.

NOTE: I hope at some time to have the stories I wrote for my writers’ group printed. If they are, ask to read them. Some of you may recognize yourselves. Just know, they were written (for the most part) in love and fun.