My granny nightgown is a time machine

I was shopping recently and spotted a very sweet, mint green cotton nightie with blue flowers. It had a few superfluous buttons down the front and a satin ribbon embellishment. I bought it because it reminded me of the nightgowns I would wear at Granny’s house. I would rummage through her drawer to find a cotton gown for sleeping.

Cotton was necessary because the summer nights on Hedge Hill could be very warm. I remember bounding into bed with Me-Maw – her bed so springy. My brothers would be on the equally springy bed on the sleeping porch just next to us. All windows and screened doors would be open to allow for the cross-breeze. The cacophony of night sounds would, eventually, lull us to sleep – crickets, frogs, whippoorwills, and the cluck of hens settling in at dusk.

We could still hear the adults playing cards in the other room, and I often felt sorry for Me-Maw that she was missing all that fun just to lie down with her grandbabies. But I guess she didn’t feel that way at all. With her lazy drawl, she would tell me funny stories about when my Mama was a little girl. I couldn’t imagine a more wonderful way to drift off to sleep than snuggled next to my granny who smelled of Prell and baby powder.

The house on the hill didn’t have AC and the plumbing was suspect – so much so that if you had to pee in the middle of the night, you used the chamber pot in the corner of the room. I kid you not! It was my first inkling that internal plumbing vs external plumbing for girls and boys was completely unfair.

The sheets were soft cotton and the cover would typically be a chenille – the kind that leaves marks on your face for hours. But they were crisp and cool and comfy. I would awaken to the smell of fresh eggs and bacon or sausage cooking. I could hear the coffee percolator doing its job, and the adults turning the pages of the newspaper. I would dress for the day, leaving Me-Maw’s nightgown on the bathroom hook for use later that night.

Now, my new granny nightie hangs on my own bathroom hook. I slipped the nightgown on tonight and pulled my hair into a ponytail. I have no idea how a material object can extract such tactile memories - I can smell, hear, feel and taste Hedge Hill. I sit on the couch and enjoy the cross breeze and listen to the sounds of the night, and feel all of 10 years old.  This granny nightgown is a time machine. <3

The view has changed

The view has changed. The recliner in the TV room previously held Dad, outfitted in his white tee-shirt tucked into his tighty whities, waiting for me to meet curfew. I was convinced this display was meant to either intimidate my date or embarrass me, or perhaps the both. Whatever…it was effective.

The view now is my mother in a souped up recliner that has a remote. At the touch of a button she can stand herself upright without having to expend any energy whatsoever. This feature is nice for Mom but not necessary. This is the recliner we got for Dad once his legs failed him. As the Parkinson’s progressed, it was an earnest effort to buy additional time before having to move him to assisted living and then to full-time health care.

Seven years ago, Mom and Dad moved from my childhood home to their retirement community. They lived at Hawthorne Drive for 40 years.  It was the only home I ever knew. The view there was of the Lawrence’s beautiful farm behind our home. Ironically, the view at their new digs is also Lawrence land, which the Lawrences generously donated to Westminster-Canterbury.

The inside view mocks me – it’s the same, but not. It’s the same china, and rugs, and furniture…the coveted piano, and books, and artwork. But it’s not in the same place. My room is gone. Dad’s workshop is gone. Mom’s kitchen has shrunk. The cul-de-sac where I learned to ride my bike is not there; neither is the stone wall where Andrew split his forehead.

The spaces have been replaced. Dad’s bar is now the local Tavern. Mom’s painting corner is now the community art room. Their living room is now an organized library. Their massive garden is now a 2x10 spot.  Forty years of memories and stuff have been crammed into half the square footage. Even with the intense down-sizing of “crap,” it’s still too much stuff in this space.

While the view of tangibles has changed, the intangibles never will. We are thankful for our many blessings. We are thankful for our family. We are thankful for our health, regardless of where it is. Faith, hope, and love support the view we will always have. Writing these words is easy. Living them is not.

Meanwhile, I lounge in (now) Mama’s recliner, using the remote to achieve perfect supination. I consider the change of view. It’s not too shabby. In fact, it’s pretty comfy!

Regardless, the view has changed. The kids are now the caregivers.

Ode to a Bowl

I broke a bowl today and I cried. I didn’t cry because I cut myself. I didn’t cry because the bowl was terribly expensive. I cried because that bowl was the last of a set of 3 that tied me to someone very special. It was something tangible – something I could touch and feel, and then somehow feel her. And now it’s gone.

Bert and I married in 1989 and moved into an amazing old house on an even more amazing old street – Stuart Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. We had neighbors with whom we are still friendly today. They were a part of our daily routine for 11 years. You cannot help but bond with someone during that length of time, if only by their daily presence.

Across the street lived Mr. and Mrs. Moss – interesting because we possibly had some family ties (Momma’s maiden name is Moss), but we never found the connection. For 4 years we lived there with only an occasional wave across the street. That changed the day we brought our first-born home from the hospital.

Mrs. Moss marched across the street, formally introduced herself, and presented me with a ceramic rocking horse with a silk flower arrangement. “I am Ethel Moss and I live across the street. I just wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter and let you know that I can watch her at any time. No charge.” Thus began one of the most impactful relationships of my life.

For our next six years on Stuart Avenue, Nana Moss became a part of our family. She was a surrogate grandmother to my girls. She was at family dinners and birthdays and Christmas. She was a caregiver and companion to our children. She helped me nurse them when they were sick. She helped me kiss boo-boos. She helped me remove splinters. She reveled in their every move and accomplishments, and thought they were as amazing as I did.

Nana Moss outfitted her house for the kids. She bought an entire video library for them – Arthur, Madeline, Little Bear, Teletubbies, and Barney. She had special sheets and towels for their sleepovers. She had toys and games and bubble bath, just for them. She would fix them her special mac & cheese and sherbet. Those specialties she served in these perfect sized little green milk glass bowls.

From what she told me, Nana Moss had a difficult and unhappy childhood. Her experiences clearly impacted her personality. She was acerbic and difficult, but oh so steadfast in her love for our children. She was flat out angry when Bert and I moved 22 miles west. She didn’t speak to us for days. I assured her we would still see her frequently, and we did. I drove the kids to see her 2-3 times each week. I called her every day. I drove her to the Doctor. I took her shopping. The girls and I would take her to lunch, or simply sit on her stoop and drink iced tea. We were friends. She was a part of my every day.

About 6 years after we moved, Nana Moss was diagnosed with a brain tumor. At her request I, along with another former neighbor, managed her medical decisions. We arranged for 24-hour nursing care. It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done…to watch her slip away and leave us. It was a long, stressful, and sad year. The day she died, I cried into my pillow like a baby. My loss was intense. I had lost a friend. I had lost someone I spoke to every single day for thirteen years. My children were devastated by the loss of their Nana Moss.

 

It’s ridiculous to think a bowl, an object, can hold you closer to someone…and yet, it did. Every time I used one of these bowls, I thought of Nana Moss and I smiled. Every. Single. Time. Continuing to serve my children ice cream in those bowl connected me with her.

She was 37 years older than I, but she was my best friend for many years. It was unique and special and sweet. Through her stubborn and strong personality, she taught me how to not take shit from anyone, how to speak my mind, how to do whatever the hell I wanted, and how to be so very grateful for all my many blessings.

I inherited 3 bowls after she died. Over the years, I broke one and then another. I would use that final bowl whenever I craved comfort. I cherished it. And then today, it slipped out of my hand when unloading the dishwasher, hit the floor, and smashed

. It was so unceremonious. I was home alone. I sunk to the floor to pick up the pieces and tears filled my eyes. I thought of Nana Moss and smiled and pouted and cried.

It’s just a bowl, but so much more. Who knew a bowl could hold so much?

Farewell and Goodbye

Tonight was our local high school’s graduation. As a School Board member, it is the highlight of my year to watch each student walk across the stage to receive his/her diploma. It’s exciting and sweet and hopeful and nostalgic.

Some of the kids stride confidently across the stage, eager to shake the Principal’s hand and receive the diploma. Others skitter across quickly, barely looking at the Principal as they grab the diploma and run down the stairs. And there’s always the handful of kids who boogie or saunter or strut rather comically, eliciting hoots and howls from the audience. It’s fun and funny!

The walk across the stage speaks volumes about one’s personality – it’s almost as though you can tell what their futures will look like. Except that you can’t.

While we said farewell to these kids tonight – wishing them to “fare” “well” in the coming years, we said goodbye to another kid who walked across this stage just one year ago. On that day, one never would’ve guessed that Cole would be gone one year later. He was a bright, funny, loved and pretty amazing young man. He was on the cusp of great things. It is a tremendous loss.

The emotional rollercoaster of saying farewell to the Class of 2014 and saying goodbye to Cole, all within 24 hours, is really too much to bear. I swallow the lump in my throat as I watch the graduates move their tassels and throw their caps into the air. I hold back the tears as I hear Pomp & Circumstance during the recessional. I smile with somber pride as I watch the graduates posing for pictures, hamming it up with their friends, and just BEAMING with relief/pride/happiness that they have graduated.

It was this same scene last year for Cole. He walked across that stage – confidently, I’m sure. He was happy and on top of the world with his friends. He posed for pictures with his loving and proud family. He had a great summer. He went off to college. He played baseball there and even received the team's Newcomer’s Award – quite an honor.

His family and friends will lay him to rest tomorrow. It will be a moving celebration of his life, but also incredibly difficult to say goodbye. So, let’s not. Instead, let’s say farewell.

Farewell acknowledges a parting, with the expectation that you will see each other again – wishing them well until you’re together again. Goodbye has more permanence to it. With that in mind, as a person of faith, it really is more of a “farewell” to Cole than goodbye. RIP sweet boy. Until we all meet again…

What I learned today: Life is short. Carpe diem.

Expedited Grief

On our way to soccer yesterday, my son remembered, “Oh hey Mom, this guy called the other day when you were gone and said his wife Jennifer died. Sorry, I forgot to tell you that.”

What?! Really?! You forgot?! Someone died, and you FORGOT!?! (I continue to be astounded by the aloofness and cluelessness of my kids, sometimes. Alas, I’ll save that rant for another day.)

He couldn’t remember the man’s name or when exactly he called. There was no identifying number on Caller ID. I could think of only one person it might be but wasn’t sure how to proceed. How do you just randomly call someone you haven’t heard from in several years and ask if his wife is still alive? Thankfully, this person had also left a message for Bert on his cell a few days later, thus verifying my suspicions and giving me an opportunity to reach out to him.

When we finally spoke, he told me his wife passed away over a year ago. Turns out she had hidden her address book in the piano bench and he just found it last week and called us. Jennifer had a liver disease. She was quite sick and ailed while she awaited a transplant. She was next on “the list.” Her opportunity arrived a week after she passed. It’s always in the timing. So very sad.

(Ironically, I had another friend who was enduring a liver disease at the exact same time. Through an amazing connection, he received a transplant from a living donor and slowly improved and became healthier at the same time that Jenn slipped away. Astounding story – read it here.)

Her husband told me so abruptly, I was taken aback. He’d already managed through it. He’d moved on with his life, he said. His head was in a different place than mine at the moment. While his head was reconciled and he had come to terms with the loss, my head was swimming. I had 15 minutes to process the news and get a grip on my expedited grief.

While we hadn’t spoken in several years, Jenn was a large part of my life for several years. She babysat my youngest daughter for two years, so I saw her twice a day every day for two years. Then we hung out as friends for several years after my daughter entered pre-school. She moved, we got busy, I moved, calls were fewer, we had young kids, they were empty nesters, etc. Different lifestyles. Different priorities. Friendships just drift away sometimes.

It’s a surreal thing to know that she’s gone; to know she’s BEEN gone for over a year, and I knew nothing about it. I missed her illness. I didn’t get to comfort or visit her. I didn’t get to grieve her. I didn’t get to support her husband or family during their grief.

It’s not about me…I get that, but I feel like I missed the opportunity to be a friend in her time of need. Of course, she could’ve contacted me during that time and didn’t – so there’s a reason. And the husband could’ve contacted us without the address book – I mean, it’s pretty easy to locate someone’s number using the Interweb! Again, he didn’t – so there must’ve been a reason; just as there was a reason he reached out to me a year later.

I have no idea. All I know is she’s gone. It’s weird to grieve without the conventional process. I missed it, and I will miss her. RIP Jennifer.

What I learned today: Ignorance is bliss.

Parenting with "crazy eyes"

Tonight was not a stellar night of parenting. The boys have been pushing my limits of late. They’ve been deceitful with their actions, lazy with their responsibilities, and have taken bickering to a whole new level. Add to that the layer of year-end stress from SOL testing, projects, and exams, and there is a heightened level of stress that hangs over the house like Pig Pen’s cloud of dirt.

I’m not a yeller. I generally keep an even keel. But when I lose it, I lose it big. I bring out the Greek and go ape sh*t on the kids. It is a high decibel rant that covers every foible and insecurity that any child would have. It is a rant so loud and outrageous and spiteful that I expect CPS to show up on my doorstep. Coupled with my “crazy eyes,” it absolutely gets their attention – but at what cost?

After my apoplectic fit, I order them to their rooms. “Brush your teeth. Go to bed. You’ll be up at the butt-crack of dawn to do a list of chores so heinous, you’ll beg for mercy.” Nice.

I hear one in his room crying. The other sheepishly leaves a note of apology on my bed. It is written with such tenderness and self-loathing, that I’m arrested. To know that my words and actions have extracted such drastic feelings from him absolutely cuts me to the quick.

After an appropriate time of reflection, we gather together to talk about it – to talk about everything – their actions, my reaction, our family, our love, how hard we all try, how truly blessed we are. I wipe their faces and tears with a washcloth, trying to erase the night. I calm them. I breathe with them. I try to quell their fears and misgivings. I tuck them in. I kiss them and tell them they are loved, and tomorrow will be better.

My 17 year old daughter walked into the maelstrom right before I sent the boys upstairs. She knew what was going down and quickly went upstairs to shower. Later, she asked me if everything was OK and I shared my thoughts. She asked, “Geez Mom, how loud did you yell? I remember, one time…” and she continued to share another proud (not) parenting moment of mine, complete with the “crazy eyes.”

On the one hand, I was horrified that she remembered it in such great detail. On the other hand, I was happy that it didn’t ruin her. She is a responsible, motivated, self-respecting and confident young woman who respects her parents. The boys, I feel sure, will be the same. The things that really matter are steadfast – they are smart and kind and caring and considerate, even if they don’t always show it.

Her parting words? “It’s just a phase. You have to do it or they’ll be complete brats.”

Perhaps. I just wish I could accomplish that without whipping out the “crazy eyes.”

What I learned today: Parenting ain’t for sissies.