Over the river and through the woods,

I'm going to write down my memories from time to time and put them here. Some will be stories my sons have heard a million times but I want to save for them anyway. Others will be things that spark a thought of how I became the me I am today.  This is the first of them.



Over the river and through the woods,


I celebrated Thanksgiving last night. Not on a table but in my mind. My memories of Thanksgivings past filled my mind with familiar smells and faces I knew and loved. My Uncle was a doctor. He had a practice in a small town. He and his wife raised six children there, in the same white house that doubled as his office. My Aunt was his nurse. Every Thanksgiving we made that drive from our city to their town. We'd leave early with a station wagon full of cookies, Christmas gifts and the smell of my Mom's "good" perfume. Not the Avon stuff she wore on less special days but a dab or two of her Chanel No. 5 she kept in a place of honor on her dresser. We had no dvd player to keep us amused so we watched the world go by. We'd call off each landmark we passed "I see the white church", "there's the huge oak tree". Each thing we passed meant we were that much closer. The ride always seemed more beautiful when the snow had made the trip before us. The lakes looked much nicer wearing a coat of ice.
I took this  same ride with my older brother when my Uncle passed. I did it without Map-quest to guide me, I memorized it long ago. The huge Oak is gone now but the white church is still there.
We'd arrive at my Uncle's and unpack in one giant cloud of people. I'd go first to the dining room to see if anything was new.  I'm not a fan of taxidermy. Damn things keep looking at me no matter which way I turned. My Uncle got paid in many ways; cash, cow, taxidermy. He had a giant zoo of wildlife from around that part of the woods. Birds, critters, even a fish or two. They lived around the dining room and I always looked because when you're pretty sure something might come to life and pack your eyes out you kinda want to know what type of create it might be.
 I was the youngest cousin so I'd have to tag along behind my brother once we got there. I'd give up after a bit and head to the kitchen where my Aunt, Mom, and two girl cousins would be bustling around, each with a job to do.  My stuffing is her recipe, my applesauce bread from my mother. I would curl up in a chair in the corner and learn against the radiator and listen to them talk and catch up.
But when the football started I'd head back into the den. That's where my Uncle held his place. My Dad wasn't much of a sports fan so he'd read the paper and pretend he wasn't napping behind the pages he held up. My cousins would be in and out,almost men with lives of their own and friends to visit while home. But me, I'd sit on the footstool and watch football. I became fascinated when a cousin had explained yards and penalties to me. My Uncle was a stern man. A tall man with a firm opinion on just about everything. Smiles from his were earned not freely handed out.
My Uncle hated the Detroit Lions and would treat us all to a lecture about them. Turns out their quarterback went to a rival college and he graduated with a bias. I'm a square peg of a person. I decided to embrace the Lions. I'm pretty sure, looking back, that I had bigger and brass-er balls than any of the male family members. I wish I could remember the look on my Uncle's face the first time I announced my newly found loyalty. I only remember it being both of us in there, with Dad asleep behind his small town news paper, and we emoted every play in the game and many years later when I visited him in his Alzheimer's facility he remembered me loving those damn Lions and smiled. A smile earned over many Thanksgiving games.
Being that my Uncle was a doctor there wasn't a year where he didn't leave the table to stitch someone up or even deliver a baby that came a week too early.  The buzzer would ring or we'd hear the fire trucks go by and he'd excuse himself and leave the table. My Aunt would follow and his children would just keep eating without looking up. This was normal to them. Nothing to see here folks, get back to your eating.
And we ate. All of us at a table that grew four times it's size every Thanksgiving day. We needed it for all the people, especially as my cousins married and had kids. We also needed it for the food it held. All the favorite and a few new. So much food and so many people.
And we ate. And ate. And ate.
And laughed and cried and sang along to the radio. The women in the kitchen warm and cozy. The men in the den full and happy.
I went there in my head last night. Trying to remember the fuzziest memories and wondering why we  don't do this anymore. I guess we all grew up and then one by one our parents died. My Aunt, then Uncle, my Dad then Mom. Some cousins on one coast, a few on the other, the rest in between or overseas. We've all got grand-kids, we've all got lives. And we've all got memories. For me Thanksgiving is still 'over the river and through the woods' so many many years ago. How lucky I was to live it, how lucky am I to still remember it.

I'm wearing my Mother's socks

It's almost Spring, we're inching our way towards it but it's still pretty cold out there so I'm watching from inside, where it's warmer. I take the dog out and he bounds gleefully out the door, runs to the driveway then       stops         .  Three paws on the ground, one in the air he looks at me in confusion. It's sunny, he can hear the birds, but it's cold out so what gives?? I pick up my poor statue of a dog and carry him back in and watch him curl up in his mountain of blankets to go back to sleep and dream of the the squirrels he'll chase when it's warm. Off goes my coat and my gloves. Off go my shoes and as I go to slide into my slippers, I look down and I realize I'm wearing my Mother's socks. 

These aren't socks she wore. They aren't some creepy momento of her. They're socks someone gave her for Christmas one year up at the home. Everyone got them, a pair of white cotton socks along with a pair of  no slide slipper socks. Mom wouldn't wear either so I gave the slipper socks to her roommate (who never walked but liked the colors) and I brought the other pair home where it entered the black hole of my sock drawer. I'd forgotten they were in there and put them on without noticing. But now I'm sitting here wearing Mom's socks and sipping my tea and realizing I've been without her for almost a year. I think it's a good sign when I don't miss her every day. I've stopped getting up and packing to go up then realizing I've nowhere to go. Her friends at the nursing home have all been passing one by one. I know she has company where ever she is. 

I've gotten busy. Things to do, people to see, places to go. Ads to write and boxes to pack, She's been out of my head and my dreams. I'm adding a stage to the stages of grief, the 'the busy stage'. The stage were you've caught up on life and are just living it. Your loved one is out of your head but still in your heart. You've made it past the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, their birthday and you're closing in on the one year anniversary. But you're doing okay. 

I'm doing okay. I'm busy. I have people to see and spend time with. My granddaughter is growing so fast it makes my head spin.. I have friends and family and my conversations don't revolve around Mom. I just let myself move on and I'm ready for Spring. I'm ready for being a grandma, for planting my flowers, for going to baseball and for taking my dog out for walks that last longer than one minute.  I still miss her. I'm still not sure why but I do. I'll probably always feel a little lost but I'll do okay because I'm surrounded by joy and because every once in a while I'll look down and realize I'm wearing her socks. 

Just a drive away..

I like to take day trips. Nothing to pack for, you get to sleep in your own bed that night. But during the day you're off to see something new. I live in New York. Not the city of New York, New York. I live at the other side. Niagara Falls are a short drive, we have history, the Erie Canal, museums for toys, steam engines, Canal History, and other fun things like Jello. A drive away can be reenactments, outdoor theater, concerts, horse races, and there's always a festival somewhere. Any given weekend I can visit a castle, cross a covered bridge, hike a glen, tour a cemetery, or ride in a hot air balloon.

For me, a day trip is the best way to go. Don't have to have anyone keep the pets company, Sometimes the wee doggy goes with us. He's a hiker of amazing endurance. He thinks he's five foot tall when he struts along Lake Ontario or Geneva. He's been to Buttermilk Park, Niagara Falls park, Olcott, and Canandagua. He loves Letchworth, Ithaca, and even Lake Erie. He out walks us humans but sure sleeps good on the way home.

Given a choice, I'd visit every small town's cemetery. I am fascinated with the history and the beauty of the stones. new life comes up in a cemetery every Spring. Newborn flowers burst into patches of color. Trees bud and bloom. The contrast is beautiful and a little bit sad.

I start a list every year. Just about now, when Winter is leaving and Spring is patiently waiting to move in. A list of day trips. Howe Caverns, a boat ride on the canal. Last year was Cooperstown, this year NJ. A day out to Cleveland for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the gardens. A train trip to NYC in the Fall. A drive to Maine for the leaves. A popover the border into foreign territory to visit Toronto Island and stroll in China Town on the way home.

When I was a child I hated these trips. It's just not cool to have to go to museums with your parents. No one wants to be see walking with them. So you'd sulk and pout and make sure that everyone around you knew how miserable you thought you were.
If only I could get those tours back. Some people want to see giant mice when they travel, others prefer boats with everything you could need. Some people need daring adventures, others want pampering. I like to see life. I like my day trips. Reader's Digest Condensed Travels. Always changing, none too long. Just enough in bite sized pieces, leaving me to see other wonders or learn other stories.

I'm making up for lost time and seeing everything I can. I'm one of those people who loves where they live. And when I finish up on my trips here I'll start branching out until I run out of things on my list. Since that will never happen I feel pretty safe continuing the way that I am. Waiting for Springtime, making my list and taking my day trips one by one.


What are your top three day trips?

day dreaming of flowers

Remember, those of you in my age group, lying on the floor slowly going through the Sears or the JC Penny Christmas catalog? I do. Brightly colored photos of everything under the sun. Hundreds of pages. My brother and I would take strips of paper, blue for him yellow for me, and we'd carefully mark our wish list.. Toys, sporting goods, dresses, shoes, sleds, dolls, it was all in there. Page after page of things we just knew we needed. Telescopes, hats, games, BB guns, everything and anything. It was magical. Hours would be spent moving those strips of paper from page to page as a new item was spotted. And we got one or two of those items, it was a very good year.
Now I'm fifty one and those days are long gone. I'm not sure if Sears even puts out a color catalog anymore. As with phone books, they don't seem like anything more than a waste of perfectly good trees. I know Toys R Us does and I did read somewhere that JC Penny will put one out this year. It won't be the same. Not just because of nostalgia but also because I've replaced it. Those glowing eyes,  I used to look through every single page of those catalogs with, now have readers to look through every single page of my new obsession... The Seed Catalogs.

Sitting inside looking out at a wall of snow I thumb my way through my seed catalog. No colored strip of construction paper, we live in a Post-it world. And every other page flies a paper flag, a reminder that this page held something I just know I need. New Lavender for the back, coleus seed of all types for the little red wagon, something hardy for around the mailbox. Nothing every grows there but maybe this is my year? I'm sure with the right plant my flowers will stop cars and people will "ooh" and "aahh".
If it weren't for those pesky rabbits I could put in ornamental cabbage. But why stock a salad bar for those creatures? they already take out our sunflowers every year.
Did you know you can get twelve varieties of coneflower to grow in our zone? I do!
I'm not rushing Spring but I know it's coming soon. My Mourning Doves are back on the line out back, the air smells like Spring and the sky is blue-er. A friendly blue, not that cold grey blue of Winter. I can see it on the horizon and I'm ready to head out with shovel, rake and soil. I am ready to pull out the lawn toys and set them in place. I can feel the dirt under my nails and the smell of life as I plant and gather.
I know I've got a little time. It's going to take more than a few sunny days to melt all this snow. It's still up to my waist in spots. But, until then I've got my Post-its and my catalog. I can wait. I still have so many pages to see and so many ideas to get. So in a few months if you're in our end of the State, swing by my place and take a look at my flowers. I promise it will be worth it.

sitting on a bench, waiting for you, waiting for me, waiting for us

I'm a believer. I'm not ashamed of it, it's who I am. Not a believer in the sense of enforced childhood participation in the church of my parent's choice. A believer in the sense that deeply to my center core, I believe in God. Don't know which God but in my world there is a God. I'm pretty sure it's the same God everyone follows. Different names, same deity. A creator.
As a believer I do not associate with any church or congregation. I fly solo. Just me and my beliefs.
My belief in God's creation goes from seed to bloom to wilting but beyond that I'm not so sure. Is there an after life? Sounds good but I won't know until I know. Being blessed enough in life is good enough for me. I do believe that at the end those who went before us will be sitting on a bench at the door that leads to who knows what.
As my Mom was dying, I was fully confident that in the room with us in spirit were my Dad and her Mother. Just sitting on the bench waiting for her. They were patient. Their souls quiet while we waited. Me to say "goodbye", them to say "hello".

Last Fall as I sat with a family friend at her nursing home, I felt that same quiet company but this time not my family but her's. Her sisters and brothers, the one man she truly loved. All waiting for her to step into their arms. As we held her hands and felt her breathing stop I knew without looking that her soul was walking away arm in arm with those she loved so much. They'd been waiting. They were ready, she was ready. They went joyfully toward the door that leads to who knows what.

I do not fear death, nor do I actively seek it. I know I've written those words before. A fellow blogger's recent posting has me thinking about that great beyond and what waits for us. When I try to picture it I'm not seeing streets paved with gold or a gaggle of virgins. I'm seeing nothing. Just blank space, empty canvas. I'm sure it will fill in someday. Colors and shapes and hopefully faces I know and miss. My childhood friend, Gregory taken from life by Leukemia. Not an easy thing to grasp as a child. My first "date" Andy, his mental pain so overwhelming that he felt he had no choice but to stop the noises in his head himself. My Aunt and Uncles, friends I knew, murders, suicides, illness, old age, accidents. The means didn't matter. For each of them as I mentally look back the images in my mind tell me their soul was met with tears, love and hugs. And then they walked away, somewhere, with those who waited for them.
If you're a fan of 'Dead like me' and I am, then you know at the end of each episode as the reaper freed the soul, that soul went off into whatever it was that Heaven was for them. I like that. I hope for that. But I'm not sure. The only thing I am sure of is that as my Mother passed, as Aunt Sally passed, those they loved so deeply were all there just sitting on a bench waiting for them. And as their souls moved on, they went with those loved ones and walked through that door to know one knows what.

There may be a heaven. There may not. What I do believe is that as I go and my loved ones say goodbye to who I am, those who went before me will be right there to say "hello. We've been sitting here on this bench waiting for you. Let's go."

For sale, one slightly used but deeply loved shiny object

I sell on ebay. I should be doing it regularly but it seems like I went on a one year sabbatical.
I also collect stuff. The problem with the buying of shiny objects is it leading to collecting shiny objects which leads to clearing space so you can buy other shiny objects. It's a nasty nasty circle of life.
Sure I could keep my mountain of shiny doo-dads and gee-gaws but then my family would put me on an episode of 'Hoarders'. I'd be the woman snuggled up inside walls of books. I'd be lying on my couch made of books and looking at my shiny stuff arranged in tidy stacks around me. Just, my books and my little dog and of course, shiny objects out the wazoo. Before I start thinking that kinda sounds nice....it's  ebay time. I photograph and describe the items one by one. I use the 'Pickers' and Antique Roadshow-speak  ".."Vintage" "Rare Find" "Highly Collectible" "created in the 1800s, 1900s.".. " I carefully describe the item. I list any flaws and I praise it's values. But I don't put the whole story on there.
All about 1880s silver and crystal condiment set with holder I pulled out of a quarter box at a garage sale in Greece, NY. I could mention how I stood there and picked each piece out myself. Took a while but it's worth it.
I don't get to explain how I bought two full page comic strips from 1903. To be fair I bought the frame. I didn't care what was in it until I pulled it out of the closet to use it and was floored.

I never give the real story. Everything I buy has a story, every single thing I own has a story. I have a wide selection but what amuses me one summer has to be rehome so I can be amused next summer.

Except books. Books go free. I leave read books with friends and family with the promise that the new reader will pass it on when they finish it. I never want them back. I never expect them back.
Sometimes what I set free comes back to me. It must love me. Growing up I had a poster that said so and as you know, 1970s posters do not lie. When a book returns to me I put a post-it with 'free to a good home' on it and leave it at the drs office, hospital waiting room, restaurant, any place you can put it down.
Not the rest of my collections. Every year items must be eliminated from the herd. Tia's natural selection.  For me, the thrill is in the hunt. I guess I've taken my love of sports and winning to a different more middle aged woman friendly level. According to my math skills I am over middle aged since I will never see 102. Blame my NYS public education if I'm wrong. I like to see other people's crap and possibly buy it. I enjoy talking to strangers and bonding for the short amount of time I'm in their drive way. I've met people of all types. Retired school teachers with a deep interest in birding. A family that took in wrestlers from Germany in the 1980s. Couples married late, couples together 50 years. Most strangers but occasionally someone you know or should know. People from the old neighborhood, people you used to know in HS, even people you used to date. Familiar strangers. Socializing with a perk.

I just have to find a way to support my addiction. Tah Ebay dah! I like to go to flea markets and buy things I like, love or am amused by. Over time some specific groupings have appeared. Those I keep. My 1980s Basketball collection. Stockton to Malone baybee.. My Niagara Falls collection. That will end up donated as a whole  to some sort of museum. The rest is forming a straight line to hit the exit.

Sundays and Mondays are ebay days. I place my ads. Then it's the wait. 3, 5, or 7 days of checking to see if I have watchers. Maybe bidders. Possibly questions. For me like losing children. I listen to music (Julian Lennon) and get to work. Sad to be giving up beloved items, I know I am fickle enough to replace them as soon as Spring hits.

Goodbye Tootsie Toys,goodbye Coca-cola glasses, goodbye silver spoons and sewing kits. I'll miss you.
Goodbye baseball cards, goodbye purses and popcorn tins.It's been real.
I'll remember you all fondly. I'll relive the time I found you and how much I made from you when you left. I promise you that if we ever run into each other again. Me with money burning a hole in my pocket and you on a table, price tag slapped lazily on you. I won't stop or pick you up. I'll keep on going,  I won't look at you sadly. I'll move along to my next find. My eyes will keep searching for that item that makes my eyes glow a little.

Today is Monday. I've got a full mug of coffee. Switching to Tracy Chapman, working music. Time to do what I hate so I can continue to do what I love. Just looking out the window at Mother Nature's PMS fury and wondering how long it will take to melt this freakishly large amount of sow. Snow up well past my waist. That ain't right. I want Spring. I want Summer. So I'm selling my old stuff and counting down to Spring and shiny new stuff.

Photographic memories

What to do with old photos? The real kind of photos, not the ones we take that never touch film. Some of my readers don't know what film is. They never had a Brownie or an Instamatic. They never bought film in cartridges or rolls, they never had to have it developed. Taking pictures used to be a process, you'd buy the film, use flash bulbs, using it sparingly because not only did you have to buy the film you also had to pay to have it developed. You'd either take it to a store and hand it over or you'd mail it off in the prepaid envelope and wait for a week or two to find the packet of photos in your mailbox. The only selfies you took were when your thumb accidentally got in the way of the lens or you hit the shutter when the camera was pointing down and you had a lovely picture of your left foot.
Those of you nodding your heads along with me know what I speak of. You also have photos or slide. Slide are photos you have to work twice as hard to see. But you have them, I have them. So what do we do with them?
I have mountains of photos. I don't throw them out because I dreamed once that I threw out all my photos and the people in them ceased to exist. Any of you book writing people who want to use that idea, it might make for a nice sci-fi short story. Just promise me I can read it! I knew my dream was a dream  but since then I've had a hard time throwing photos away. So I keep them and then the pile grows and grows and you know where this is headed... avalanche!
Now my dilemma, what do I do with these photos. Do I scan them and save them to some cloud in the sky? Do I learn to scrapbook and put them in nice neat piles of books? Should I return some to the people in them? I really don't know but I do know something has to give because there are too many of them. But how do you throw away memories like these:

Yes that my brother and me. I have photos of us growing up, of my kids growing up, of relatives as far back as cameras span. I have tin types, Kodachrome, black and white, color and Polaroid. I have slides, portraits, school photos, and negatives that ended up stray without an envelope to call home. I've got bins of old photo albums from my parent's childhoods, all glued in place with black corner holders and dates written underneath in white pencil.

I will probably weed through them all and liberate most from the herd. I'll scan them to save them and then comes my issue. How do I get rid of them? Do I have a bon fire? throw them in with the kitchen trash? bury them in shreds, I really don't know. Do spirits live with photos as many people think or are the memories so real that we feel the person in the photo? 

This is a real question: what do you do with old photos? 

Hear here! It all makes sense.

Snowplows pushing, train whistles blowing, airplanes flying, bus brakes squealing, children yelling. These are the sounds I know.

Heater clicking, cat meowing, neighbors shoveling, garbage trucks stopping, car doors slamming. These are the sounds I hear.

Voices yelling, my sons laughing, always moving, tvs blaring, phones always ringing.These were the sounds I loved.

Grandkids active, loved ones chatting, morning bird songs, daytime bustle, nighttime silence. These are the sounds I crave.

 

 

I've been having some problems with my hearing. It's slowly coming back but while life was muffled so I gave a lot of thought to my senses. Which would I choose to lose if I got to choose? Sight, sound, touch, taste,smell?

To taste a steak fresh off the grill or an ice cold beer in the middle of August? Savoring the flavors of herbs from my garden or berries from the farmers market? These are things I love. The sourness of lemon, the sweetness of Christmas cookies. I'd be so sad without those things, yet I could go on. 

The scents of Summer, Spring and Fall. The gentle smell of lavender and the lilacs every year. Fresh cut grass and gasoline, pine trees, popcorn, brownies warm from the oven. The smell of leaves in October, of the chill in the air.  I'd be so sad without these things, yet I could go on. 

The feel of my dogs soft fur, a hand clasped in mine, a hug from someone I love. The crumbling of dirt beneath my hands, the softness of a baby's skin, the feel of cool sheets and warm blankets. I would be sad without those things, I guess I could go on. 

The sound of my sons calling for mom, my granddaughter's voice, to hear "I love you", to say goodbye, to say hello, to hear the rainfall hit the roof and thunder crash and boom. Music playing, peopIe chatting, laughter flowing. It would be sad without these things, I wonder if I'd go on.

To see the faces I adore. To watch a movie, read a book, view a wonder. The sight of nature, God's pure world, the things that man has made. My eyes see heartbreak, joy, and sadness as I go through my day. I take for granted all I see. I forget the beauty around me. What I skip over today I know  I'll see tomorrow, this I can go without. I don't think I would or should go on but I know I could.

My Mother was blind in her last days. A process that robbed her slowly of the things she loved to do. My life is no big celebration of adventure and challenge and dares. I am nothing more than a simple soul who uses her eyes to savor life. My children, my granddaughter's beautiful face, the Falls, the parks, just me and my camera looking at the world. My ears are healing now. I can hear my idiot dog barking at the wind. I can listen to the sound of my grandfather clock chiming every little bit. I can smile when a friend calls me and talks to me for hours. It's still a little muffled but I hear it more each day.

Taste, smell, touch, hear, see.  I can live without those things. I wouldn't want to but I can. As long as I have just one.. my sight or sound or touch to keep me whole I know I'll always feel blessed even when some other senses go. I just needed a little wake up call to remind me how lucky I am. 

Snow Days (a blast from the past)

This is an older blog entry from 2/2010. It came to mind as I listened to the school closings this morning. I hope you enjoy it, snow days are excitement for kids but not for their parents whose work places don't close. Stay warm if you can!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Laying in bed, listening to the wind I hear my Father’s alarm going off.

5am: I slowly pull my head and shoulders out from under my blanket to peer out the window, careful not to let the morning’s frigid air slip into my cocoon. With eyes barely open I squint to see in the darkness.. Snow, yes it snowing but is it enough? Quickly I slide back into the warmth and lay there anticipating, hoping, wishing.

5:30 am: the shower goes off and still I lay there hoping.

5:45am: he heads down the stairs as I lay there with my eyes screwed tight in prayer.
The smell of coffee rises up to me, the pans make noises in the kitchen. I hear the front door open as he brings in the paper. Please oh please let it be true.

6am: my brother’s alarm goes off. WCMF blares loudly once then twice. He’s up, it’s my turn soon. My prayers become frantic, I make promises both God and I know I’ll never keep. I’ll be good, I’ll do chores I’m not even told to do, I’ll do everything…anything.
Again the shower shuts off, it’s almost time. I peek out the window again, seeing nothing but darkness and the barest hint of light.

My turn now, I linger in my room. Slowly I make my bed, get dressed, pull my books and homework together. I head down the stairs defeated. I slump into the kitchen while my Father turns on the radio. WHAM comes to life. The newsman drones on about the President’s trip, about countries I never gave thought to. Then it’s time. The list. The list we never seem to make.

Eating my oatmeal I listen and think bad thoughts about the ones in charge.
The list is read off “Albion, Aquinas, Batavia, Brockport” It’s unfair, it’s not right, it never happens for us. “Churchville, Dansville, Elmyra” Why do we have to suffer, why are we always left out in the cold waiting for the buses that always seem to show up on time? “Fairport, Geneva” It’s just not fair, they hate us “GREECE” We look at each other, our spoons in midair. “did he say what we thought he said? Can it be true??

We jump to our feet, we yell and we scream. A snow day, a snow day!!! How lucky we are. The phone starts to ring as our friends call with the news “we finally have a snow day, what shall we do”

Recipes for disaster (or 'pinterest is the antichrist)

I come about it through family lines. What Pinterest is to me, recipes in magazines and newspapers were to my Mom. I love crafty ideas. I see one, I want to make it so I like it or link it or add it to my saved sites. Then I never go back. I mean to, I want to but I'm me and that means I will put it out of thought out of mind. Should I make wreaths from old candy wrappers? Will I ever send out homemade cards stamped with corks I've carved into hearts and Christmas trees? Do I need to make a homemade lantern from an old coffee can? Probably not but it's so cute and looks so easy so I just might... never.
Will I use a bookcase made from old shipping crates? Chances are zero but again it's so cute and looks awesome so add it to my list.
How about a garden with old china tea cups filled with ferns and violets or panseys? Love it but not gonna happen.
Or set of coasters for everyone I know using old photos and mason jar lids? But but but ...they can double as Christmas tree ornaments with the snip of a hole puncher and some curling ribbon so ... No, but let's save it just in case.
I've even found a way to share my sickness and deflect blame from me. I now send links to my son's girlfriends and to my dear long suffering friends. Then it's them not me, right? Yesterday a blanket ladder, a week ago melted snowmen cookies, before that painted flowers on glass made from old window frames. I need help, someone save me from myself. Please.

BUT.

It isn't my fault. I inherited my illness. Blame my Mother. It's on her. When I got custody of her and all her stuff, I got custody of two bins full of cut out recipes and hints that appear to be helpful but really aren't. They came from packages, magazines, other people, and some I swear she invented after hearing it on the radio or tv. And I got them, all of them, every blessed one.  Meatloaf made with canned corned beef hash. Casseroles with things we should never eat together all blended into a big pile of geh. Appitizers, or "horse de or vaays" to quote my mom, that no one ever made. Nor should they. If they printed it, Shirley cut it out. I've been going through them one by one. A couple were keepers. Pickled beets made from canned beets, deeelicious. I will share it with anyone who asks. Sweet and sour pork minus the minute rice? Yum. But some of them are skeery. Some of them are just plain wrong. Would you like to know how to make Ringtum Ditty? What about Burgundy glazed hot dogs? Feeling brave? She has recipes for blood sausage, for homemade cat food, and even for making what I will just assume is a delightful prune shortcake.
Not so brave now are you?

And it wasn't just recipes, She has how-tos for stain removal, for table settings, for making your own soap out of slivers of old soap.  That one involves cookie cutters and a lobotomy. I know hints for laundry, hints for sink cleaning with leftover squeezed lemons you used to make your family a pitcher of homemade lemonade, how to use a grill and then clean it, how to use shower curtain rings to hang umbrellas and belts in your closets. The ideas abound and are filed in a notebook each in their special place. Your's for the low low price of ....
Thanks to Mom I know how to can headcheese, set up a buffet, take rings off my wooden tables with mayo, keep cats off the sofa (and kids too), fix a run in my pantyhose with nail polish, use that same polish to stop the fraying of a hoodie string, make potato pancakes and fold a fitted sheet. Now that last one is worth all the reading and sorting don't you think?

If you are close enough to be on my facebook or know me by voice, thank my Mom for the links and ideas. If you aren't then send me a self addressed/stamped envelope and $0.15 and I will send you my handy dandy book of helpful hints. You see, I really cannot help myself, I'm addicted. But there is hope, somewhere in one of my files is a 12 Step program for idea and hints hoarders, I just have to find it and I guess if I can't I can probably find it on Pinterest!

Bored in the USA

I've been told my blog makes it seem like I live in the past with no focus on the future but that's not true. I remember the past, I live in the now, and I wonder what the future brings. I can't picture the future because it hasn't happened yet and who knows what tomorrow will hold. I talk about the past but only because I think it's important to learn from it. This post is about the here and now. It's about the words "I'm bored"

So let's start in the past, because I can. When I was a child saying "I'm bored" earned me chores. I learned fast not to say it, act it, or look it. Bored wasn't going to get me far and I'd get so busy looking not bored that I'd forget I was bored. I think it might have been easier to be bored in the 60s. No tv, no Blue Ray, no DVDs, no cable. No on-demand, texting, or sexting, Not much was "insta", not much was out there. We picked up a book or some crayons.We played baseball and tag not video games and CDs. Bored wasn't a word we used often. "I" stood for "me" not ipod or ipad or IMAX.

Fast-forward to now. I was talking with a friend and his son was in the background complaining about being "bored". In a plugged in world how can anyone be bored? And when did it become an excuse for bad actions, cruelty, and crime? "It's not his fault, he was bored". "We keep them busy so they don't get bored". "He was bored so we bought him a,b, or c."  Anti-boredom is a style of parenting. As if "bored" is a bad word or an abusive action. No one has had their kids taken because they allowed them to be bored.No one has faced charges for not overloading their daughter's head with devices and instant amusement.
Remember day dreaming? Sure boredom can lead to mischief but it can also lead to imagination and invention. It can lead to day dreaming and creating. It can lead to opening the door and going outside. It can actually lead to human interaction and face to face discussion. The horror.
So to my accusers, yup I am old school, mostly due to my middleaged-ness. I remember back when and I look at it fondly. Because back when we played with people not things. When a discussion was in a room not on a screen. I challenge you parents of today. Let your children be bored. Let them day dream and create. Let them spend time with people. Take a week and be old school. Can you do it? can you let your children be bored? Learn from my past to make your today better and your future relationships be with people. Be bored, savor it, enjoy it, teach your children to be bored once in a while you may find some of your best memories come from being bored.

Paper hugs

I haven't taken my Christmas cards down yet. I may leave them up until Valentine's Day. Each one holds love and with that love comes fond memories from people I can't see every day.

Every morning I sit here and sip coffee from my first mug of the day and I look at the cards encircling the doorway and I think "I should really take those down" but I don't. I like them too much. They are proof that I am blessed with friends and family. They are proof that I matter in this world.
Sure, one or two come from places or people I don't really know. One from the postman, another from the local baseball team we bought season tickets to. They don't really know me but I don't really care. Their cards hang right there with the others, they carry memories too.
The mailman, who's deaf ..not that it matters, always leaves two tiny Milk Bone treats for Rudy even though he cannot hear him. He knows whenever he approaches either door Rudy is somewhere inside barking his fool head off, just like he does in the warmer days. So our mailman leaves him treats which Rudy enjoys every time, his little tail wagging faster than his jaws can crunch those bones. I left him a plate of cookies and he mailed (yes, mailed) me a card.
The card from the Rochester Red Wings reminds me that soon I'll be sitting in my new season ticket holder seat freezing my tush off on Opening Day. I'll be screaming and clapping my mittened up hands and will jump to my double socked and booted feet when we score. Will it be cold? Yup. Will I be bundled up like a toddler on the first day of snow, unable to bend my elbows, waist or knees? Yup Will it be worth it? Hell yup.

I've got cards from my cousins, cards from old neighbors, cards from a dear friend or two. Each one holds a smile. My cousin, a few years older than me, is the proud Dad of two toddlers. Yes, toddlers at his age. God bless him, I remember those days. He's running ragged, always moving and still sends a letter out with a card. A tradition he carries over from his parents. His card is Christmas to me. He and his sister and parents would travel by train from NYC each Christmas and we'd meet up with them at his grandmothers to eat and play and go out in the snow on the old wooden sleds. We only saw them twice a year so the excitement for Christmas held a special glow. His parents are old now, as old as my parents would be. They no longer live on their own and can't tackle small notes let alone Christmas letters full of updates and news and their usual invite to one and all to join them on New Years for their annual party. We never went, too far away but the invite itself brought visions of a different world in the Big Apple. His party is on hold for a few years, toddler chasing takes over as all of us parents know. But his card still brings memories of sights and smells from years past. I look at it now and can picture those days at his Grandma's warming up after a long afternoon of sledding. I can smell the ham baking and the scent of her tree and the image of a pile of gifts and toys pops into my head. Each time we met up the four of us kids picked up right where we left off and when my cousin came to Mom's memorial with his wife and small kids we picked up again as if we'd just seen each other in the past week. Some things never ever change and I hope they never will.

There's a card from my brother. He's on the long road to recovery. Soon after Christmas he took a bad fall and will never be the same. He was in critical condition for a while and I look at his card and think how lucky I am to have this last member of the Robinson four still with me. I could have lost him and I didn't. He is blessed and so am I.

There's a card from my childhood next door neighbor. She reminds me that we will do lunch this summer when she's in town. Now that Mom is gone her visits will include my brother and I. There's another from the people directly across the street from her on our old street. One from my parents friend a street over and a couple from others in the old 'hood'. We scattered like so many people do when they grow up but these cards tie us all back together.

I got sad cards with only one name at the bottom. Too many people leave us before we are ready to say goodbye. It reminds me to be grateful for the time I spend with loved ones. It reminds me to say "I love you" and to get a real hug in when I go to say goodbye.

I've a few photo cards. The next generation and the children they've had. My granddaughter included. She's six now and a big sister. Her Christmas card picture doesn't show that first lost tooth, that happened between then and now. Then off to the right is a picture of a dear family with a little girl born a week after my granddaughter. She's recently lost her first tooth too but like my granddaughter her smile is full in her photo too. They change so quickly, next year's photos will come too soon.

I've got cards from dear friends, far friends, and near friends. Friends I've met and friends I'll never meet. Family I cherish and the children they chase. I'm blessed to have this out pouring of love so I think I'll keep my Christmas cards up a while longer. To others they may be tacky or silly but to me they are paper hugs.

I'm not Lion

but I am a Lion's fan. For my entire life I've loved those Deeeetroit Lions. In their good years (few), their great years (far between) and their bad years (all the rest). But I wasn't born a Lions fan. I wasn't raised in a house decorated in that pretty shade of blue. I am a Lions fan because of Uncle Phil. Every year we'd make the drive from Rochester to a small town a few hours away. We'd get up early and load up the zucchini breads and cookies. We'd drive off in a station wagon filled with a cloud of Chanel No 5, Mom's special event perfume. We'd arrive and go up the side steps, past my Uncle's office, and into a kitchen full of bustling women and plenty of chatter. My Aunt was a bundle of energy, only 4' 9", the Mother of seven, a nurse who ran my Uncle's practice and ran her house both at the same time. She's hug us, comment on my height, and push us off into the dining room and sitting room. I'd be sent up the stairs with a pile of coats on my arm and directions to go into the first door on my left and place them on the bed. My cousins would call out to me as I went past. All but one would usually return for Thanksgiving. I was the youngest by two years and that was my brother. Next was a boy cousin 5 years older than me. So I'd go back down stairs and into the kitchen. We'd eat and then it began, an afternoon of football. I'd camp out in the sitting room once the tables were cleared and dishes all done. I'd listen to the "men" talk about work and trains and whatever men talk about and I'd listen to my Uncle talk about how much he hated the Detroit Lions. 

Soooo.... I am a Lions fan. Thanks to Uncle Phil for that. I'd cheer and whoop and carry on whenever we scored or gained a first down. I'd groan when we got on the wrong side of the foul. And one by one my cousins would wander off, my Dad would doze off, and I'd watch football with Uncle Phil. My Uncle was my Dad's brother. He was a stern man, a disciplined Father, and a man not given to warm and fuzzy moments. But during the football games he was different, kinder and for me a man I truly respected. He was a small town doctor. He was a devout Methodist. He was a good man. You just had to get past his surface to see it and the only time I saw it was during those football games. My Uncle passed away a bit after my Dad did. He had been here near us, we visited him a few times. He had Alzheimers. One of the last times I saw him, when his memory was still working a bit, we visited him and his cat in the facility he was in, we talked of all those Thanksgivings and how much the car ride had changed. And I mentioned my beloved Lions and on cue he went off into a tirade about those horrible Lions. And we smiled. He lived a lot longer but he lived inside his head. When he passed it was a blessing for him, and I know my Dad and Aunt were up there waiting for him and tomorrow when I face my first Thanksgiving with no parents, I won't just think of them but also of Uncle Phil who gave me my love of football and my Lions. 

Happy Thanksgiving, I hope everyone who reads this can think o one blessing to count because if you can count one then you are indeed blessed. Be safe on the roads. 

just hand over the money and no one gets hurt

don't worry, not another ramble about my war with NY State for Mom's extra money. They want it, I'm not giving it up. I don't particularly want the money and will donate it to the activity dept. at Mom's nursing home. It's that the money grubbing State had it's greedy little hand out before we could think. 

This is about deciding who to buy from, who to disappoint, and trying to figure out where you'll put thirty boxes of Girl Scout cookies, tins of Boy Scout popcorn and all the coupon books you've been buying. This is soon to be followed by magazines out the ears. Yup, it's buying season. And all those people who once bought my boys crap now have little ones or first grandkids selling crap. Pay back is a true bitch. 

We only sold cookies and wreaths as kids. Cookies from my Girl Scouts and wreaths by my brother's Boy Scout troop. No big deal, Mom and Dad bought an equal total of each. One wreath equaled appx. 4 boxes of thin mints and short breads. At Halloween-eve we'd go house to house with our UNICEF boxes. The honor system still lived back then. And we did it because we really believed our little orange boxes of loose change made a huge difference. I still choose to believe it. 

Now, they start selling in pre-school: wreaths, Kindergarten: magazines, and soon the onslaught hits. Every year, several times a year. Coupon books, car washes, bottle drives, chocolate, popcorn, cooking  kits, pizzas, Christmas paper, gift cards, more than you can imagine. And every hand is out. 

Now, I was once guilty. I pimped stuff in my time. I was the winner of the 'Parent who bought the most' three years straight. I bought the hell out of that wrapping paper. Wrapping paper isn't the devil (chocolate, I'm allergic), it doesn't spoil, expire or start to smell after a while. Everyone needs wrapping paper (or bags, which isn't a bad idea. I'd buy gift bags. Save me trips to the dollar store. ) Unfortunately my prize was a basket of wrapping paper. I only recently ran out. 

I get e-mails from people's kids. I get phone calls from parents. I even got a postcard in the mail. When did pimping stuff get to high tech? We had to go door to door, every door. We had to trudge back out and deliver it all weeks later. And we only did it once a year each. Now it's school, sports, activities, clubs, you name it ..they fund raise. And we are reduced to avoiding calls, pretending we didn't see e-mails, and hiding behind the couch with the dog whenever the doorbell rings. I can only buy so much and I'm at my limit.

Unless my granddaughter is selling. I can always use more of whatever she's selling. And I'm sure who ever is reading this would like to buy some too..... I'll have her give you a call. 

Jack Frost was a pervert with a nasal fetish

that got your attention, didn't it?

The wind is blowing through my house. It comes in the back windows and goes out the front. The dog is hiding from the curtains, they keep chasing him. It smells like Autumn. On Friday and Saturday nights I can sit outside and listen to the HS footballs games. The noise carries in the air from the local school. I can tell by the roars if we're winning  and the quiet when we aren't. 

This is sleeping weather. Cold at night, chilly in the morning but sunny all day long. The grass isn't growing so fast but we trade our mower for rakes and fight Mother Nature (and lose). The apple orchards are in a full out frenzy as couples and kids pick their own. And it's pumpkin time, every grower has something to entice us. Hayrides, petting zoos, crafts, pony rides, corn mazes and haunted houses. Anything to get us in and before you know it you're headed home with a trunk full of doughnuts, pumpkins, cider and apples. 

I love this time of year. NY gets real pretty in October and the colors are already beginning to pop. My Mom's favorite bushes go all red, Burning Bushes, she loved them and planted several at the lake. The Golden Rod's faded but the bright trees make up for it. 

Life is rolling on. We got past Mom's birthday and my birthday. Next is my brother's. Then just a few more firsts. I'm not sure why they are sad days but they are. I'm hoping time eases that. Every two weeks I go up to the nursing home and visit Mom's friends, my friends now. I count faces when I walk down the hall. I need to know they're all there. Sometimes one's missing. After all they don't go there to get younger. All my faces accounted for I visit with Mom's roommate Doris and my adopted person Jean. I decorate their doors with Mom's decorations. Much better than boxing them up throwing them away. It's healing to go up, and now it's already Fall.

Halloween is everywhere, a little early but who cares, it's not s-wording yet. Cross your fingers. According to my caterpillars, it's going to be a cold cold winter. It's the perfect time to walk Watkin's Glen or Letchworth or to go to  Butter Milk Falls. I'm a creepy cemetery walker. I think the headstones are beautiful pieces of artwork. The history is fascinating to me and the trees and the leaves set the scene. 

I raked my first leaves yesterday. The first on the block! And this morning the first leaf removal trucks came by. Beats the heck out of bagging them. Every Fall my Dad bought  apples and turned the kitchen into an apple sauce factory. He froze it and all year round we had fresh applesauce at hand. When he retired and spent winters in Florida, he always bought a bushel to take back. Those NY apples were a prized commodity in Sunny Florida. I might try my hand at applesauce this weekend, or maybe make pies. Just so I can smell Autumn in my house and savor it while it's here. 

Winter isn't too far away...

Happy birthday to Mom, happy birthday (almost) to me

Yesterday was Mom's birthday. She'd have been 90. A lot of things happen in 90 years and she lived through most of them. That's pretty amazing, even if she almost made it to her day.

I always hated Mom's birthday. Not because of her, that was a separate issue. I hated her birthday because I never got my own birthday. Those few days in between our's  were ignored in my house. Her birthday was mine, even though it wasn't. Sure, I got the usual kids sleepover with three of my friends. We'd take over the trailer in the driveway for a sleepover and we'd stay up way too late and giggle about the silliest, stupidest things.
But when it came to family celebrations, her's and mine were always the same day, the same meal, the same cake. I never understood why. There were three days in between us and those three days seemed pretty big to a kiddo.
I get my own day now. This year I do.
For the years I was more Mom to my boys and less daughter to my Mom, I'd have my own day too. But when she came to us, it reverted back. I reverted it, out of habit I'm sure. Last year it was too sad of a day and Mom was to sick so I skipped over the 50th birthday willingly. I didn't need Nifty Fifty gifts to remind me I was older, being a grandma hits that home. My friends didn't notice my day and my Mom wasn't able to. I was okay with that.
Not that I mind being older. As I've said before, I like me now. I know who I am, I fit in my skin and I like me better now than I did at twenty or thirty. I'm okay with who I've become, even through others might not be.
In two days I get older, officially. Some friends will notice, a couple probablywon't. I'll be happy to know what I've done with my life, I'll be sad not to have Mom to share my day with and I'll be grateful for all the times that she did share it. Who I am at almost fiftyone can see the memories a little clearer than who I used to be.
This year, yesterday, I celebrated Mom's birthday. Some drinks and some toasts, some conversation and tears with my brother. A long long walk with my camera and a lot of memories in my head. I think Mom would have had a nice birthday.

Happy birthday to Mom, she lived a long life.
Happy birthday to me, I know that I won't and I'm okay with that too.

Happy birthday to us Mom,
I'd gladly share our cake this year and when I blow out the candles my wish will be that you are wishing me a happy birthday too.

Phonies, dead guys, and stuff.

My goal for this morning is to get the house cleaned while on the phone with Florida. I figure it will take me at least three rooms of dusting and sweeping to get the bank to agree to close Mom's last account. They are holding a hostage I'm willing to slay. $4.45. Yup, for $4.45 they will not close my Mother's account and I don't want the damn money. It would cost me more to send certified copies of the death certificate to them. Today we will do the word dance that seems to be banker foreplay.

My version may have additional words, that went unsaid, added to tell the real story.

Me: Hi I'd like to close Shirley McMyMom's account because she has passed away. 

Them: We are sorry for your loss. Can you verify the death?

Me: You're not sorry. Yes I can. 

Them: Oh you're still there? <whispers to coworker "I got  live one here" they cackle> 

Them: Is there a balance on the account?

Me: Yes, you blood sucking ...I mean yes there is. 

Them: <I'll teach this one to sass me> Can you verify the balance please?

Me: yes I can.

Them: well?? 

Me: you asked if I can, I can. You didn't ask me to do it. Sheesh. Way to go public school edumacation. 

Me: since you said please... it's four, count them one-two-three-four dollars and forty-frikkin-five stinking cents.

Me: And I do not want it.

Them: <to coworker> this will piss her off cackle cackle ... 

Them: Ma'am. Ma'am that money is legally owed to the estate. 

Me: You keep it, buy yourself a new outfit. 

Them: it is so on now MA'AM!

Them: WE cannot release this money without proper paperwork. You need xxx and vvv and ooo and we will require notarization <picks nails and smirks> and it will need to be sent registered mail. 

Me: BUT I DO NOT WANT IT, just close the account paaaleazzzzeeeee.

Them: Ma'am, we cannot close an account with an active balance. 

Me: thinking it's time to try a new approach. 

Me: With the fees you take out this account will overdraw on September the first. Then it will be an overdraw fee which will not be paid. Then that will add up, some genius in your legal dept. will get himself a stiffy for the money owed, he will sue my dead Mother and when it goes to court I will show up and point out that you cannot get blood from a rock, or from a box of ashes that hangs out in my hall next to Dad and a stuffed lamb. The judge will  ask your legal eagle why this dead thing wasn't noticed before now and he will slink back to the office. Dead Mom win!

Me: or... you could close the damn account. BECAUSE SHE'S DEAD

Them: Ma'am, we cannot close an account with an active balance. WE cannot release this money without proper paperwork. Ma'am, you need xxx and vvv and ooo and we will require notarization <picks nails and smirks> and it will need to be sent registered mail. 

Them: Ma'am

Game. Set. Match.

In the way back of my fridge, surrounded by

In the way back of my fridge, surrounded by half empty salad dressings and marinates that sounded good in the store but tasted bad on the grill is a small can of ginger ale. I keep it so I can let other things go. I took a picture of it to show my brother. As soon as I prep a crock pot cobbler I'll explain it.

My Mom was a lot of things but I'm finally letting it go. Why carry grudges that no longer matter. My Mother was my worst enemy growing up, a sad kind of ghost in my mid years, and a human being at her end. I'm a grudge holder. If someone hurt me I never forget. I've just learned to stop picking scabs. I had to to find my own balance. Sometimes bad parents aren't bad parents by choice. Any child of a mentally ill parents can tell you that. I just had to learn how to let go of what she was as a child and learn to love the wounded person she was now. I fought it tooth and nail. The whole time I was fighting it I was saving everything of theirs. I couldn't give away Mom's things with Mom still alive. That just isn't right. So I kept it all in tubs under the pinballs against the wall. Out of sight out of mind.

I've finally started throwing it out. I have to let things go. I went to two garage sales this weekend. Both were children selling off Mom and Dad's stuff. We're becoming an epidemic. Adult children selling the folks stuff for a buck. I will not do that to my kids. They'd toss it before the ambulance door shut.. Unless they piss me off,I'm sorting it for them. I'm starting by liberating mom and dads stuff. It's time. I'm parting with the tea cups I really don't like. A couple for the sons girls, a couple for tea parties with my granddaughter.  The rest need to go. And lots of things do/did. Last week I let go. Then went away for a couple days. This week the rest goes. I'm keeping the photos but not much else. A pretty glass item here and there, my great grandpas rocking chair. Some family things. The rest is gone. I gave old photos to people who were in them. Gave my cousin letters his dad wrote as he traveled the world at eighteen. Letters his grandmother wrote to her sister. Mom had them. We figure Dad collecting stamps comes into play. My Dad's Army things to a son. Some china to the other. The rest recycled or donated.
It feels good. I needed to do it before my kids got it some day. I needed to cut the emotional ties. Get rid of the emotional clutter. I'm keeping things that make me smile, like Mom's weird JELLO book of recipes. I'd like to meet the person who wrote that. Maybe they can make me understand why anyone in the right mind puts celery in JELLO. Geh!
And I'm also keeping one tiny can of ginger ale.
The last one in Mom's ginger ale stash in her room. She almost ran out. We kept her hooked into the ginger ale back streets, she never ran out. She loved her ginger ale and they'd give us five or six extra to hide in case they ran low. Shirley wanted ginger ale and by God she would get it. All it took to keep her happy was a little can of ginger ale with a bendy straw and the straw was optional.  A little can just like this

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

A couple things have me thoughtful today. The death of a friend’s step-dad, the (soon) scattering of the ashes of a man I wish I’d have had as my own Dad, or a neighbor, or as a friend for a whole lot longer.

I used to mark my days by the important things like how many days until the last day of school, how many days of summer vacation, how many days until my birthday, how many days until Christmas. Then I grew up a bit and it became how long until the baby’s born, how many months/years of age is he, how many days until he goes off to college. Now it’s who died, when, and what will I do, how many days until the funeral/service/burial, how many days until Grandma Tia’s Monday.

This is a weekend of ashes. Scattering some, making plans to have others interred, sending condolences to those whose loved one(s) have died. The goodbye part of life.

I’ve been dreaming weird dreams. Bits and pieces of my childhood that weren’t scary, sad, or bad. Things like trips to Wyanoco Lake every summer. I have no idea why we started going but you know the place in Dirty Dancing? kind of like that. Group activities, meals, water, classes, games. The whole thing minus the grinding and back music. I can’t allow my brain to picture Mom and Dad with ‘hungry eyes’ playing in the distance. GEH! We went every year, met up with friends of Moms and Dads.

As childhood travels went, it was good. Every year another road trip in the disfunction mobile, every year another state. And somehow they always knew someone somewhere where we were going and we’d park a night or two in their driveways. Or we’d stay in a State park or KOA campground. We weren’t really safe as kids back then but we thought we were. My brother and I would explore until bedtime and then make a campfire to hand out by. If Mom was still good we’d play Triaminoes or UNO before bed. It was nice. And Mom and Dad never met a museum they didn’t need to tour. I’m pretty sure my love of roadside oddities is ingrained since them. We went where ever the wind or AAA maps would take us.

And even though my inner child is having a fit over my memories, I remember them trying their best at home too. In between Mom’s ‘episodes aka ‘real life Twilight Zone’, there were the good days. That trailer we traveled in was rented out to a family who skiied at Swain. They’d rent it for the ski season so they could have a place to sleep, etc. during the season. This meant it was in our driveway from September – November.

So my birthday, which I hated and my birthday sleepover party, which I loved.. were both at home. I hated the day because it was three days from Mom’s and they were always celebrated together. I call foul on anyone who denies a kid their own special day! My party was always the same, three friends sleeping over. We got the trailer for the night. That’s independent in those days. And as a girl… it wasn’t a tent. Tents would be uncivilized. We’d do the cake thing after dinner and then we were on our own. I can’t remember what we’d do but it probably doesn’t matter “what”, it only mattered “that”. I remember counting down those late-summer days until the first day of school and then my birthday.

This year is a whole different count down, more of a count up. And the trips I’m taking are first and foremost down memory lane. More often when I sleep. Today a friend says goodbye to a man who loved not only this friend’s mom but the whole family. Friday a little bit of one of the greatest men I’ve know returns to a place he loved and shared with his own sons. And every day is another day I count, it’s been eighty one days since my Mom died but my memories are shifting and the clouds that have skewed my view of the past have left me as well. My good memories are surfacing and that makes me lucky.

and it is only forty one days until my birthday. sweet!

In the grander scheme of things

I am my Mother now. But only in the generational scheme. I am the oldest tier of relatives, I am the oldest generation in my little family. Before me came my parents and before them, their parents. Now I am the one who pulls the fabric of our family together and keeps us from fraying. I never wanted the job and this morning when it hit me, it hit me hard. I'm too young to be the elder. I'm too young to wear that crown, although I do love shiny objects and who doesn't look good on a throne?
I miss my Mom. I never thought I'd feel that, I never thought I'd love her.
My Mom was many things. To most she was seen all put together, matching outfits, hair done, lipstick on. But inside our doors she was my greatest fear. When a person is manic you never know what each moment brings. I've hinted at my childhood. It wasn't great but it was, to quote every idiot out there, what it was. My brother and I learned to tend to ourselves when Mom was in a downward spiral. We tentatively smiled when all was up and happy. And we survived and surviving made us who we are. It made him emotional and afraid of upset. It made me strong but a little too hard when people need me to be soft. And as I aged I turned my back on my parents. I had to for my own mental stability. All was well until the call. I've talked about the call before so bear with me, I have a need to retell the story.
The call. The call came in on a Wednesday. No feeling of doom as my phone rang, no black cloud overhead. Just a call from my parents neighbor. She was worried about them. Life changed quickly. For Mom, for me, for my brother and it ended for Dad. I arrived in Florida on a Thursday, the next day. Dad died a few days later, Mom died almost two months ago. Somewhere in between Dad and Mom, I found myself. I've never been a big fan of people claiming to "find themselves" and I certainly never set out to do it. Three years of Mom solidified Tia. I love my Mom. Another thing I never thought I'd say. Somewhere in between touching down in Florida and today, I learned to love her.
I know now that her mental illness shaped her. It made her weak. It made her strong. It made her a fighter. I don't think my inner strength is half as strong as her's was. Even when we reached NY, even on hospice the first time, even as cancer found her twice, even as wave after wave of manic depression hit her, she fought back. When my brother and I made that decision to let her go, her body kept on fighting until she ran out of strength and quietly left us.I miss her, I'm lost without her. She made me strong but losing her made me weak.
People tell me things like "she's in a better place", "she's with your Dad", "it was her time" and my personal favorite "she's happy now". She might be happy, she might be with my Dad in a better place, and yes it was her time but I miss her. I'm grateful that I got a chance to be with her. I learned to be compassionate, I learned to forgive and forget. I got to know who she was.
I've started to heal. The holes of the loss are filled with my granddaughter. The other end of the family scale. I heal with every moment I spend with her, she brings me joy.
Someone at the home used to call Mom 'The Matriarch'. I guess that's my job now.