Little Gifts

The daffodils are done blooming at our house now, but before they were gone I took a picture of my neighbor’s daffodil bed as we see it from our living room window. She planted them all along the side of her house when she redid the flowerbeds quite a few years ago. Later on, before Mom died, she mentioned to me in passing when I’d complemented her on them that she’d planted those specific bulbs all along that side because Mom had once mentioned how much she liked daffodils and she knew Mom would be able to see them from her living room chair. Now, when I see her daffodils every spring, I immediately think of Mom and the quiet gift my neighbor gave her.

Mom had been in that same chair a couple years before when my neighbor’s husband fell backwards off of scaffolding, narrowly missing a cement pad and pile of lumber below. I had been at school but Mom told me later that she saw it happening and barely had the time to breathe the prayer, “Mary, Jesus, & Joseph” before he landed. She watched as family came around the corner and helped him into the truck to head for the ER. When he heard about Mom’s reaction, he said her prayer was what saved him and later sent word to her to pray again, because he had to go back up on the scaffolding to finish the job he’d started.

I guess the story doesn’t stop there, either. A year or so after that, when Mom found herself admitted into the hospital and headed to surgery for a pacemaker, one of my neighbor’s daughters called her dad at work to tell him it was his turn to pray for Grammy. This 6-and-a-half foot master mechanic stopped the meeting he was in and had everyone bow their heads.

Planting daffodils was a simple, thoughtful thing to do. No fanfare, no media hype, no acts of congress; just a quiet little deed blooming from an open heart. That’s what all those actions were. Simple choices made by one person for another that naturally rippled out and touched others as well. The little things we do really can matter quite a lot.

The Power of Applesauce

 

I cried in my applesauce today. (Is that a country western song?) It was a silly thing to do, but, never-the-less, there I was, sitting at my desk with silent tears slipping down as I tried to mentally deny it was happening. Thankfully, I'd stayed in my classroom during lunch rather than joining the staff in the teachers' room.

 

Even sillier was the fact that it was actually the applesauce, itself, that triggered my reaction. I hardly ever eat it, but after some dental work the day before it was one of the few requisite "soft foods" convenient to bring for my lunch. Perhaps it was the subconscious acknowledgement that the jar it came from was one recently opened for the express purpose of using it up before its expiration date since it had been purchased before Mom died. Indeed, it was her preferred variety, made from yellow delicious apples, sweetened, but no cinnamon. The last one I ever bought for her - never opened until now.

 

As I raised the spoon to my mouth, I was instantly sitting in front of Mom, watching her take a bite of applesauce just after I had placed a pill on it. We had gone through this slow, deliberate ritual every day for a year and a half. I thought, how ironic that I'm finishing her last jar of applesauce and will have no need of more. The prickle of tears began. Stop this, It's silly. I can't do this here.

 

With the next resolute spoonful to my mouth, I found myself spooning it to Betty and watching her smile back at me with her eyes. Now the tears were undeniable and unstoppable. The few minutes it took for me to search out a Kleenex was all the time I allowed the sorrow to flow, then I blew my nose and pulled myself back together.

 

Life must go on and it does. It's best that it does, too, because the alternative is to let our lives stagnate and with it our ability to cope and grow.

 

Who would have thought that applesauce could have such power? It won't always, of course, but today certainly caught me off guard. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow it won't be in my lunch bag.

Giving Thanks a Whole New Way

We were seated around a table, but it didn’t seem like Thanksgiving. There was no turkey. No ham. No stuffing or gravy. No rolls, mashed potatoes, or pumpkin pie. No parades or football games dominated the room and neither snow nor frozen fog nor falling leaves created the ambiance of autumn. In fact, if Don hadn’t said, “Happy Thanksgiving!” after we said the blessing, I wouldn’t even have remembered it was that day. But it was and it was enough. More than enough.

 

I knew a priest once who turned down invitations for celebrating that holiday with others. He said he only celebrated Thanksgiving alone, feasting on just one baked potato and nothing else the whole day. It seems there had been a rough time in his life when that’s all he had to eat one Thanksgiving and, because he was thankful to have had even that to nourish him he chose to show his appreciation to God by celebrating the same way every year afterwards. I thought at the time how odd that was to purposely celebrate alone, but maybe it was, rather, a lesson for me that the holidays are what we choose to make them.

 

I am discovering that my holidays are mostly about people and attitude; specifically, mine. Places, traditions, food, and decorations are lovely, enriching additions to special celebrations, but sharing the day with someone I care about is what really creates the joy for me. So, when Don brought it to our attention that we were embarking on our Thanksgiving meal, all it took was looking around the table to bring the holiday feeling to life.

 

 

So, this year we dined on lasagna instead of turkey, lounged on beach chairs instead of in arm chairs, and ended the night listening to Gangnam Style (http://youtu.be/mIQToVqDMb8) instead of the season’s first Christmas carols. And I couldn’t have been more thankful!

Retirement

 

And so begins another transition. The paperwork is in and the word is out. By the time our Christmas cards are in the mail this year, Don and I will both be footloose pensioners driving each other and our kids crazy. It’s both exciting and scary.

 

Although the idea of a slower pace with fewer demands sounds great, we have never been alone together 24-7 for more than a week. There were always parents, kids, or jobs to chop up our time and steer our schedules. I can’t imagine how this transition will play out, but it is my grandest hope that we will survive it and come out the other side still friends. I’ll keep you posted.

Noel

 
Not more than six or eight weeks old, Ellie followed Sarah home one December day and hopped on my knee as I squatted down to paint the outside of our front window. She was bright, beautiful, and impudent. She took up residence on Dad’s lap until he died, traveled with Mom, and inserted her rights and preferences everywhere she went. She adopted two other kittens and allowed them to enter her domain, albeit with parameters. She loved to play a rousing game of tag, stalk the fish in the fish tank, follow yard intruders from window to window, and wrestle no-holds-barred with Joey. She snuggled on my shoulder at night, kneading my neck, sat by us if we started coughing until we were better, dug her way into cupboards, closets, and drawers to find perfect napping spots, and thoroughly enjoyed ruling the roost when she became the matriarch of the household. I loved Ellie’s companionship, her sense of humor, her independence, and her dedication to Mom. She never left Mom’s side the day she died and she mourned for days until little Maia bustled through the doorway, insisting that Ellie accept her friendship.

 

Thank you, Noel, for your feisty love, devotion, and companionship. You are greatly missed.

 

(1996-2013)

Baby Steps

With the one year anniversary of Mom’s death last weekend, we have completed our year of “firsts” without her; the first night of sleep with the monitor off, the first walk to the car without dragging the wheelchair down the ramp, the first visit to a friend in the middle of the day, the first birthdays, the first round of holidays and holiday pictures, the first return to her home, the first outings to her favorite restaurants and stores. Don and I have even taken some short trips to test our new wings of freedom.

 

Overall, it has been a predictably sad, but positive year in that we have taken our time to adjust, heal, and look for a new balance. The surprise for me has been that I expected to feel a sense of relief beneath the sadness, but it either has not come or has been so tangled up with the feelings of loss and change that it was negligible. Although I marvel at the ease of small freedoms, that sense of relief eludes me. Even after a year I still feel like I am a step behind, trying to catch up, but catch up to what? I don’t know.

 

I think this struggle has something to do with Mom being the last of our parents and grandparents. Even though the others have been gone for a number of years, Mom’s death seems to have freshened their loss as well. I remind myself daily how lucky we were to have them for as long as we did so that our kids could grow up amid such an eclectic, loving, funny, and terrific support system. But I still miss Mom’s gentleness and unexpected laughter, Grandpa Tebedo’s corny jokes, Aunt Blanche’s and Grandma Tebedo’s spoiling, Vern’s protectiveness, Betty’s winks and friendship, and Dad’s steadfast belief in us.

 

So, this year of firsts has been slower to work through and many regained freedoms feel more bittersweet than triumphant. Yet, we have much love and laughter to remember and be thankful for and much sweetness and fun to look forward to, so life is still good. Different, but good.

One Year

One of the last things that Mom asked for was to go home to Aunt Blanche, who raised her after her mom died. I think, no matter how old we get, we always need our moms. It's true for me, anyway; even now.

 

But, when instant gratification isn't possible, the next best thing is to visit them in memory and know that they really aren't all that far away.

 

 

We miss you Mom, but we remember what you taught us. See you soon.