A Quiet Christmas

Faithfully like clock work, Mom would decorate the graves for holidays. She had boxes of Christmas florals and wreaths. I made sure to do the same this year so all those years of collecting would be put to good use. Her side has the flowers and Dad's the Santa that he played so masterfully for many years.

Here's to you, Mom, a decorated for the season grave. We didn't forget.

A Freezer Full of Ice Cream

The downsizing of many food stuffs has been irritating. One is ice cream which until recently was sold in half-gallon containers. Now most are only 1.5 quart. I refuse to buy them. This caused a dilema on Thanksgiving to serve pie without ice cream. Therefore, I made a gallon batch of delicious vanilla from our trusty wooden electric ice cream maker.

This reminded me of my youth on many a summer Sunday when each of my siblings and I took a turn with our hand cranked model with high expectations of the delicious reward we got when it was frozen. Mom would be in the kitchen cooking a roast, mashing potatoes, making gravy. The table was set with her special pink rose bud china. Best manners were always used as we carefully consumed the meal and awaited our portion of ice cream.

The old freezer was put away in her shed a forgotten buddy of yesteryear.

Something Old, Something New

While going through Mom's possessions we have discovered so many old and beloved items. Her cedar chest which was always at the foot of her bed like a faithful pet. Growing up we looked at some of the things in it but never really appreciated them. Occassionally she would open it to take something out and show us. It was 'old stuff' and meant little to us.

Now it is all so precious. We discovered her wedding veil, now sixty plus years old. Embroidered pillowcases, hand crocheted doilies, floral table cloths. Many of the items were her wedding gifts. My sister, Sandy's baby sweater that matches the outfit she is wearing in a photo at six months old is here.

How sad I am that Mom cannot share these stories with us now. Why didn't we sit down with her and listen about the beautiful treasures she held dear? Like a Ghost Town they wait for her return.

Remember the Old Days

Stepping into this farm house kitchen of the Fielding Garr Ranch on Antelope Island, took me 'back to my youth'. I was a kid again with my bed sandwiched between the refrigerator and wood burning cook stove in the kitchen. Stainless steel legs, marbled gray table top, these mealtime wonders lasted for decades. It wasn't that long ago baby boomers crawled under, beside and on top of these sturdy structures.

Washer ringer tubs in the old kitchen are easily called to mind. On wash day the steady hum of the machine as the clothes swished back and forth, back and forth, are not forgotten by this 1950's baby. When ready each piece had to be pushed through the two rolling pin size, revolving rollers to ring out all the excess water. Next the tubs of laundry were hauled outside to be hung on the metal wire clothes line with wooden pins.

After whipping in the breeze, frozen into cardboard shapes or just drying in the sun, the pieces where let loose of their anchors taken back inside and dumped on the couch to be folded and put away. Oh, those were the days never to be forgotten.

Trumpet Vine Tasting Time

About six years ago I planted a trumpet vine at the corner of our tennis court. When I was a child, it grew wild at my grand parents place and reminds me of the good old days of hopscotch and bike rides.

The spindley bush had a hard time making it up the metal post and nearly died out completely, when we sprayed the weeds in our lawn. The suckers were sending up shoots everywhere. Once this perennial gets a foothold, watch out! It's like a teenager having an out of control growth spurt. I swear this plant grew six feet in one summer. It now tops our chain link tennis court fence and is eye level to the ten foot high deck.

Red-Orange is a hummingbird's favorite color. Dusk is a popular time for the tiny bird to visit our now "trumpet tree". No need for a hummingbird feeder to fill constantly with sugar water. Bees start here at first light in shifts, hauling out nectar till the sun's gone down. From my front row deck seat, it's a joy to observe a hard day's work from our little friends. What a marvel nature is.

Birthday Bash Posthumously

Our Crane Gang got together to celebrate Mom & Dad's birthday posthumously. They have passed on, but we still enjoy spending time having fun, eating, smiling and gabbing. May you do the same with your loved ones as often as possible.

Trying to Think Magically

I found 'The Year of Magical Thinking' by Joan Didion while cleaning out Mom's house. I had heard about it a few years ago, but forgot the title so didn't get it. This is a good time to read about death and bereavement. The book also helps me understand what it would have been like for Mom when she became a widow. I try to put myself in her shoes.

"Marriage is not only time: it is also, the denial of time." We see ourselves through our spouse's eyes, not aging. We remember events that took place in our togetherness and timelessness. After they are gone, we see ourselves through the eyes of others. When home, commenting or going places, "There is no one to agree, disagree, or talk back." Often the bereaved keeps time by last year's calendar, marking the dates when the deceased was still living.

I remember thinking Mom was selfish at times. "We are repeatedly left, with no further focus than ourselves, a source from which self-pity naturally flows." It was natural for her to gravitate to this after twenty years of being alone. She had experienced the 'Widowmaker' (heart attack) because of Dad's coronary artery
disease" and had to make the best of what was left of her life.

"Often we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. There comes a point when we must reliquish the dead." This is a natural reaction to losing a loved one.

About a the year after Joan Didion's husband's death she wrote: "I pledged thst I would not lead the rest of my life as a specail case, a guest, someone who could not function on her own." Everyone comes to this point eventually and then gradually digs out on their own timetable.

Although losing a parent doesn't compare to a spouse, the healing comes in waves. Sometimes when we least expect it, a memory is jarred by some subtle encounter. No one knows how long it will be until the grieving and mourning are over. It must run its course as unpredictable as a broken river or ditch bank cascading to the lowest spot. Healing takes time and I must be patient.