Waiting in the Weeds

It's so curious:  one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief.  But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.  

 Colette

Funny how life spins. How you plan that when you reach that certain point in time when a task completed will allow you to move forward, you suddenly discover you haven't finished where you were at all. Can set you right back on your ass. And, there, perhaps the only place to hang out is in the weeds, waiting for another day when it might be a little easier to emerge -- slowly.

Plan to return to my blogging world very soon. School's out for me next week. Several other things to tidy up and then, well, then I will see where the summer takes me. If I'll pull the  weeds out or let them hide around me a little longer. 

Hope all of you are well. I miss your worlds. Hopefully not for much longer.

What Goes Around...

You don't really understand human nature unless you know why a child on a merry-go-round will wave at his parents every time around - and why his parents will always wave back.  

William D. Tammeus

About twenty years ago, I volunteered at a living history farm. I had joined a natural science guild and had the option of working at a nature center or at Pioneer Farm. The farm depicted 1880 in Texas. As the mother of three young boys, that sounded like the best escape for me. Besides, at the nature center, you had to take out the snakes and show the visiting children. Not my thing.

I had two boys in elementary school at the time and my neighbor looked after my youngest while I enjoyed four hours a month dressing up in a long dress and apron. I milked the cow, collected the eggs, fed slop to the pigs, started a fire in the old stove and made pies or chicken stew while showing off chamber pots and corn cob toilet paper to the visiting school children.

Very peaceful for me, those four hours once a month. Loved it.

But, as mothers often discover, peace is a misnomer. Due to the illness of my neighbor, I found myself at the farm with Ian, then two years old. We were at the Tenant Farm that day. A place where the original farmer and his wife raised 12 children. The farmer's mother got to sleep in the only bed. Outdoor kitchen.

On this particular day of volunteering, I was getting the fire going and Ian was washing clothes in a washtub. He'd rinse out the towels and hang them on the clothes line. He had to climb a stool to reach the clothes line and between washing, rinsing, wringing, climbing and hanging up, he was quite busy.

About 9 weeks earlier, eight piglets came into the world and for the past three weeks running with wild abandon around the farm had become their bane. Sort of like a pack of teenagers with nothing structured in their lives. This day they decided to help Ian with the laundry.

As soon as he'd climb the stool to hang a shirt or towel, the pigs would gather at his wash bucket and pull out the item soaking and run off. At first he tried to chase them, but the group of eight ran in circles around him. One could almost hear them laughing as they played Keep Away.

At home, one of the books I was currently reading to Ian was Caps for Sale by Esphyr Solobodkina. In the story, a peddler who sells caps that he carries stacked on his head decides to take a nap under a tree. While he sleeps, a group of monkeys steal his colorful caps and arrange themselves in the branches above. When the peddler awakes, he stands with hands clenched in frustration, berating the wild group to give him back his hats.

Ian resorted to the same tactic, shaking his hands at the mischievious crew. "You pigs you! You give me back my clothes."

Memories. As he relayed the story to his older brothers, so it came that my days of going to the farm alone became a time of volunteering more often, with three boys in tow. Amazingly enough, on one of our visits, the bluebonnets were in bloom and even more amazing, I had a camera in the car. (I know I put this at the beginning, but just had to show it again.)

My kids loved the farm. They planted crops, collected eggs, made cookies, stacked wood, played hide and seek in the barn, fed the pigs, cows, horses and baby chicks while interpreting for crowds of visiting children. They had the run of the place, right along with the pigs. When my parents came for Christmas, we would all volunteer. We depicted a multi-generational family at the Homestead on Christmas Eve. My husband and dad welcomed the walking crowds and my mom played the pump organ while those visiting sang carols.

When she grew tired of pumping, the boys would take turns sitting on the floor pushing the pumps up and down. Somewhere I have a photo of all of us (of course can't find it now.)

And so we come to the point of this tale. Many of you have followed my stories of middle son, Jordan, the Fisheries and Wildlife major on his treks through the world of job hunting. From raising baby deer in south Texas to the wilds of Wyoming and West Texas and trading substitute teaching jobs with me.

A few Saturdays ago, my husband and I returned to Pioneer Farms after quite a few years of absence. Not much had changed other than further improvements on more farm scenes and the addition of a town square.

And some new animals.

While we wandered, guess who showed up walking from town square?

 

 Yup. That's Jordan. The farm hired him three days a week. 

He spends the other days of the week subbing or working landscape. Such is the life for many of our young college graduates. Several jobs. But, oh, how he enjoys this one, nurtured in childhood. Perhaps one good thing I did.

Daughters? Who Needs Them?

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.  

Thornton Wilder

Long, long ago I wrote an essay about my hopes for having a girl child. That with each of my three pregnancies I hoped and dreamed of pink sleepers, ballet classes, and the camaraderie of a female living in my home. With three brothers and no sisters, I yearned for female companionship. I figured that perhaps what I missed in a sister I could find in a daughter.

I worked on that essay for two years. I sent it out to several journals and it became a finalist in two. Finally, one chose it but right before publication a matter came up in regard to the venue and my use of the word penis. It was such the perfect word for the sentence, but the headmaster of verbiage at the publication didn't agree. I would gladly have pulled the word or resupplied something else like dink, wanger, unit, you know, I was willing. Alas, the piece didn't make it into the book and continues to languish in a file cabinet along with many of my other essays that just didn't quite make the cut.

Perhaps a slap in the face to remind me that I didn't ever get a sister and I had three sons. Not like I needed a slap in the face to remember that. But as time went by and I spent my life at ballparks, boy scouts, the men's department, and sports stores, I forgot about a life with a daughter. Besides, my boys provided me with great love.

Daughters - didn't need one.

This past Christmas was a difficult one. Energy for the season wasn't exactly flowing. With the death of my mother the past September, I couldn't quite muster the joy of the season. I did get my cards out, baked some bread, put up decorations, and bought my very first fake tree. You might recall that I wrote how we put it up and the poor thing only had a 23yr old paperplate angel and couple of doves. Pathetic display.

The previous Christmas I had given my new daughter-in-law a kit for knitting a stocking. The style matched all those I had made for myself and the other kids, which was a match for my husbands made by his aunt long ago.

When I gave it to her, I joked that knowing me next Christmas would creep up and I wouldn't have begun. Yes, that kit sat in my knitting basket beside my chair where I reside and 11 months went by before I took it out and began. It had been 20 years since I'd made the last one, so a learning curve was in order. I began with too large of needles  so my gauge was off. But time was clicking by and I had no time to begin anew.

Onto Christmas Eve we gathered early in the afternoon. Daughter-in-law Chelsea and I had tea in my grandmother's china cups. She made sangria for a colorful cocktail. We prepared trays of appetizers. While waiting for dinner, we sat in the family room, the fake tree lit up with its measly collection of store bought candy canes plus an angel and three doves. Still hadn't had the gumption to get out the ornament boxes.

When I mentioned that fact, Chelsea rose with great energy, "I'll do it." I thought she was joking, but no, the boxes were brought in and she spent the next hour or more sorting through the ornaments and making our tree look like a true Christmas tree. My heart warmed like it hadn't in quite some time as I saw her work - and the joy she exuded as she laughed brought lightness to the room. The task that I had dreaded while carrying great weight on my heart, she completed with ease.

Even adding a touch of holiday here and there around the house.

I don't know if everyone needs a daughter, but I am most thankful I have one.

Please visit Chelsea's Blog Somewhere Between Rustic and Shabby

Tuition Sluts

The Rose Bowl is the only bowl I've ever seen that I didn't have to clean.

Erma Bombeck

I know many of you are not football fans, but I am. I have my specific teams like my Alma Mater -- Michigan State.  My parents lived in Green Bay, Wisconsin for 31 years and my kids attended Packer summer practice camps countless times. Packers are my pro team.

My husband, Bob, graduated from University of Colorado. I don't feel much loyalty there. But when my kids went off to college, Bob and I  found ourselves rooting for teams we never would have considered in a million years. Never did we picture our legs hooked together with a stranger or our arms swathed across the back of whomever stood next to us while we swayed and sang "Saw Varsity's horns off." Or that we'd say "Whoop!' after another Fighting Texas Aggie first down.

Then, there we were in Flagstaff, Arizona watching the Northern Arizona Lumberjacks take on the likes of Montana State while we counted as Louie the Lumberjack did pushups on a trampoline to match the score. Not to mention that although the school colors are navy and green, the athletic colors are navy and yellow - verboten to a green and white Michigan State fan. (U of Michigan is blue and yellow - oh, sorry. Maize, she writes with a sarcastic shrug of her shoulders. I don't like Wolverines.)

No surprise that when youngest son, Ian, went off the the University of Alabama, we became fans of the Crimson Tide. We've just had to face the fact that we are tuition sluts. We cheer for whoever is taking our money.

Banner year for Crimson Tide and Green Bay Packer fans. Tide plays for the national championship Monday night. Packers - three games from repeating as Super Bowl champs.

Tomorrow night Bob and I will wear our Alabama shirts and plant ourselves in front of the TV in the Green Bay Packer Hall of Fame (basement.) After each first down, we will shake our shakers on the Roll Tide count. 

First Down Alabama - Roll Tide.

Just sayin'.

Promises, Promises

The promise given was a necessity of the past:  the word broken is a necessity of the present.  

Niccolo Machiavelli

I will never have a fake Christmas tree. 

Here it is. Fake in all its glory. Opened the box, took it out in two pieces, plugged it in. Nobody complaining because we had to drive 50 miles and walk acres and acres to find the perfect tree. Nobody swearing while trying to get it straight in the tree stand. Nobody GDing while stringing all the lights. No needles to pick up by hand because the vacuum won't suck them up.

Instant Christmas tree.

I have always, going back as far of my 55 years as I recall, promised I would never have a fake tree. A Promise. A word of honor - an oath, pledge, guarantee, commitment. All those fancy words for 'You can count on me.'

Well, hell. Doesn't seem to bother anyone else around this household, so why should it bother me? I think it's kind of pretty. LED lights and all. So pretty, that the ornament boxes haven't even come out of the garage yet. And they might not. The only thing on there is a pretty crown I picked up years ago and the angel oldest son, Jacob, made 24 years ago.

Bob has an ornament, of course.

And there are 9 candy canes on there. I ate one.

I'm thinking that is all I can muster this year. With the passing of my mother this past fall, I've pacified myself by substitute teaching and making lists of things to do for Christmas. Gifts, bread making, wrapping, contributions, food for Christmas Eve and Christmas day. Cards and letters written and sent. (Some long overdue thank yous.)

But for some reason getting the ornaments on the tree just seems too tedious. All those little things seem just too much for me. Even Ian came home from university and said, "We don't have to put all the ornaments on it, do we?"

No, we don't. Worked for me. I didn't even put up many of the other Christmas decorations. It does look festive around here, but in a milder manner.

I did, however, order a new dove for my tree. Rather ironic as I think about it. Bear with me as I tell this story.

My mother never left much in regard to instructions for her funeral. I don't think she much cared what happened to her body after death. My older brother, Jon, handled the arrangements at the funeral home while I - well, I don't quite remember what I was doing. Getting everyone gathered. Going through paperwork. Funding it. Anyway, I was grateful for his handling of that aspect. The only thing my mom ever told me was that she wanted white doves released at her graveside.

A few years ago she called to tell me she had talked to a woman for hours all about it. And when we discussed my dad's funeral arrangements last year, she told my brothers that she had told me she wanted that at hers. I promised to do it. Promised.

When my brother went off to the funeral home with a myriad of details to fulfill, I reminded him of the doves. I couldn't find the name of the lady my mom had spoken to but the funeral home had a guy. They said the dove guy would meet us at the graveyard.

As things go, you know, we did the nice service at the church (my mom would have complained that it was much too long), proceeded to the graveyard where my older brother and I were met by a guy under dressed for a funeral with a squat cage of birds. He handed us a well worn laminated sheet with three poems on it. "Which one you want me to read?" he said. My fast reading eyes decided then and there that I should have had a little more hands on for this part. I couldn't get past that they all sounded rather cheesy. I chose the least tawdry just as my brother pointed to the most trite.

Whatever, was my thought. But when the time came, the man said he didn't usually get requests for two birds - either one or an entire flock. I guess I was thinking my mom and dad when I requested two. For some reason, that revved the old guy up. He said the most lovely words repeating the unusual request and that this was a love story. Bill and Bernie flying off together.  As my oldest and youngest brothers passed in front of my husband and me, birds in hands, I closed my eyes to what I saw - and decided to lift that sight from my mind and just imagine two lovely doves. My husband, however, does not have the creative imagination I do - nor the ability to always keep his mouth closed.

"They're GD pigeons, " he blurted out.

Thank you, Bob.  Of course they weren't beautiful doves. Of course they were ratty old white carrier pigeons. Just pretend, Bob. I promised.

As I stood there gulping down  the promise I'd made,  I couldn't help recall how much my mother detested pigeons. When I was a little girl living on 18th Street, the mothers  used to sit out on the front stoops while the kids played outside. Pretty soon I'd hear a few screams, look over to see Joey Costa's big brother's pigeon swooping at the women's heads as they sat on their steps. Joey's brother no where in sight.

The poor bird only wanted to sit on the light above their front doors and if left alone, probably would only have done that, but imaginations run and I think Hitchcock's The Birds was out at the time and women and their tall, teased hairdos and well, you know...

My mom would scream, "Joey Costa. Go get your GD brother and tell him to get his GD pigeon back in its cage right now or we'll have that GD bird killed."

I don't know whatever happened to Joey Costa, or his brother's bird, but for years after, my mom loved to watch cardinals, carolina wrens, finches and robins while they ate at her feeders. She called to those freebirds she discovered in the wild. But if one dared swoop at her, they were the devil incarnate.

So there's the irony in that. My mother was scared enough of pigeons to GD the poor little neighbor kid's older brother and his bird. Good thing she was dead when the pigeons were released to symbolize love at her funeral.

The birds were very eager and pretty when they flew off toward their home. Everyone oohed and ahhed. But I guess I didn't handle that promise very well. I did, however, put a really pretty fake dove on my fake tree that I also promised I would never have. Does that help?

Believe it or not, I have many other stories to tell from my mother's graveside ceremony - like fireworks wars, champagne toasts, and that tombstone that sort of got knocked askew. Perhaps another day.

Merry Christmas everybody. I promise.

What to Do, What to Do...

The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.  

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As many of you know, we've had a drought in Texas this year. Lately - a few intermittent days of rain. This past weekend, cold and rain dominated the forecast. I relished its arrival.

 

How does one spend a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon during Christmas season? Hmmmm.

Stay in bed. Surround yourself with hundreds of catalogs (that have your postman hating your guts), a laptop, and a credit card. Start and complete all Christmas shopping while tucked in the warmth of a comforter.

Get the bread machine going while getting out of bed to make a new cup of tea.

Keep it going, all day long. The scent of a sweet bread filling the house. Oh, yeah. Switch from tea to wine and get your journal out.

Relish the beauty of the loaves before wrapping them to give to your friends. 

 

Set up the tree.

Go downstairs and watch the Green Bay Packers.

 Prrrrfect day.

Roll Tide

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart: I am, I am, I am.

Sylvia Plath 

Roll Tide. Rolling tide. Rolling. Been a while since I've posted, but I am still rolling. Not certain it is a clean roll. Lots of undertow in the tide.

As many have experienced, a death in the family often produces a fog that blocks the roads ahead. Thought processes muddle or become stagnant. For me, both true. Varied thoughts all the time and  gathering them into a cohesive plan for life action has taken time. Not to say I'm all organized now, for that sure as hell ain't true (nor never possibly has been.) But I do have a new list of action items - things that must get done. It is a start.

"Write a new post" on my list. Here we go.

This is what $230 will get you for a seat at an Alabama game - one that also includes the #1 and #2 team.

Last summer, when we chose to attend the Alabama/LSU football game, we had no idea that by the time the game rolled around, these two would be the top two teams in the nation (or that our tickets had tripled in price.) Oh, what fun. We drove the 11 hour drive to Tuscaloosa and invaded our youngest son's spotless apartment. (I mean - that boy DID learn how to clean a bathroom when he lived at home.)  His three roommates were thrilled to have us spend a couple of days there. Such nice boys.

 The night before the game, we began tailgating on campus. Never had I seen such a set up - not at a Michigan State, Texas, Colorado, Michigan, Texas A&M, etc. game. Thousands of tents. Countless RV's set up everywhere from fields on campus to the shopping malls. 175,000 people milling about.

The fun began - early morning. A rare open space here.

 

 There we were, a couple of former Yankees in the deep South.

Even the ESPN guys were there.

Throngs of people.

The streets jam packed all day long.

One of the many, many RV parking lots.

 

According to some, watching the game on TV was the equivalent of the Boring Bowl. For those present, Alabama's loss in this defensive struggle, 9-6, was most intense to sit through. 

Best thing? Good chance  these two teams will meet again for the National Championship.

Other than being with youngest son, best thing about the trip?

Stopped in New Orleans on the way home. Husband finally got to garner the experience. Made him stand here for the traditional photo.

I won't have to listen to him whine about never being there, anymore.

Meanwhile....

I've pretty much felt like this big block of ice for the past couple of months. Losing your mom is an odd thing to process.

I believe I've broken off from the big pile and find floating has unstuck me some. Hoping for a bigger melt real soon. The fog has lifted and offers a path.

To all of you who have written me and to all who left such lovely comments on my mom's last blog post at Old? Who Me?, please accept my heartfelt thanks.

Roll Tide!