Grace and Gratitude

Last week my father-in-law's long struggle with Alzheimers and/or vascular dementia ended. He passed away at his home under the devoted care of his beloved wife. I am sure that he is in a better place now. Being trapped within his own body and mind, unable to embrace life with the energy and enthusiasm that was typically him, failed to rob him of his faith and optimism. Faith in God so unwavering and optimism that things would always get better, even if in a way not fully comprehended by the human mind. He was an ordinary man who lived an extraordinary life of value, honor, service and love. Not a day went by when he didn't greet and close the day with prayer. Never did he fail to express his love to his family and friends with a kiss, hug, or handshake. Stranger was not in his vocabulary. He befriended all he met and took great care to extend that friendship to those whom society rejects. Never seeking accolades for his service, he humbly volunteered his time to his church and community, serving as board member or dishwasher, fundraiser or mentor, repairman or teacher, actor or clown. He was a buzz of hyperactivity, seizing the day with great intention. Yet he was able to center himself through prayer and reflection. He was always grateful for the goodness in his life. And when things went wrong, as they always will, he was optimistic that it was going to get better. He was not perfect and he recognized that. He simply chose to never stop trying and to look for the lesson in failure. His optimism allowed him an ability to see hope where others saw despair, to seek out the good in spite of the bad, to live a life of grace without the need for glory. His spirit will remain in our hearts and hopefully live on through us as we seek our own path to grace and humanity. I am honored to have known him.

Crunch Time

My little sister has recently informed me that she has noticed how much of a potty mouth she has developed. Words fly out of her mouth that she would have been embarrassed to have uttered in public in prior years but the stress of her job and the constant buzz of cursing around her by her male coworkers have taken a toll on her censory abilities. Now that she is acutely aware of how she sounds she has started a self-imposed deprivation program based on Pavlov's theory. First, she started wearing a specific bracelet and ring to work so that every time she sees them she is reminded of her goal to clean up her vocabulary. Then, the hard part: for every foul word that escapes from her subconscious thoughts she will punish herself with ten stomach crunches.

I had to laugh when she told me about this plan. I could just imagine how her days would go over the next few weeks:

"I can't f'...ing believe those assholes. Oh shit, I didn't mean to say f....! That's ten damn, I mean darn, crunches. Oh crap, I just said shit, didn't I? That's twenty crunches."

Never mind that she glossed over a few and by my count she probably should have done at least fifty crunches. The next morning would start out something like this:

"Holy shit, I can't get out of this freaking bed. I am so sore from doing those crunches. How the hell will I be able to work today?" Wincing in pain as she rolls out of bed, she realizes she now has earned twenty crunches to start off the new day. "Crap, I have got to get a handle on this." With shallow breathing and shuffling feet, she walks in to work just in time. Glancing at her bracelet she vows to make it through the morning without further punishment. All goes well until her coworker announces that he has to take a road trip to pick up some parts -code for he's going home for the rest of the day. "That son-of-a-bitch....! No, no, no, what the hel..ck is wrong with me? I have got to stop my mouth. That's thirty crunches and it's not even lunch time yet. God help me. It just pisses me off so much that I work my ass off while he's out screwing around."

Stopping for a moment, she realizes just how hard this endeavor is going to be. She grabs her cigarettes and heads outside to take a break. She calls me for a bit of phone therapy. "Crap, I forgot my lighter. No, crap is not a potty word. I'm thinking more like the F word, you know, the bad ones." She borrows a lighter and as she takes a long draw from her cigarette she contemplates other methods she can add to reach her goal. I suggest a rubber band around her wrist that she can snap to inflict pain instantly whenever she slips up, truly Pavlovian conditioning. She envisions a visit to the hand surgeon as a result and vetos the idea. Maybe a swear jar where she drops in a quarter for each infraction and she has to give the proceeds to those infuriatingly lazy coworkers each day. This goads her into another round and she bites her tongue.

This bad habit may be hard to break but she very well could end up with abs of steel in the process. Good luck Sis!

Tumbled Memories

My dryer is not working properly so I have had to do the wash then haul it off to the laundromat for drying. I would hang it out on the line to dry but with all the trees in my yard I am afraid the birds would make a mess of it. So I loaded the baskets into the back of the car, grabbed my library books and a soda, and drove down the road to the coin laundry. As I parked the car near the door I was glad to see that I would be the only one there. After dropping my quarters into the slots and selecting the heat settings I settled into a chair to read. As I sat there my mind wandered away from my book and back to my childhood. My mother would be doing this very same thing, late at night or very early in the morning so she could stake claim to as many washers and dryers as necessary for a family of eight. If any of us kids were awake and willing to go she would let us tag along to help with the folding and hanging and the loading of the car. I always loved it if I got to be the sole accompaniment and have time to talk to her without all my brothers and sisters around. It didn't seem much like work because time spent with my mother was always a pleasure. She would let me put the coins in the slots and slide them in to start the wash and she would follow me down the row of machines adding detergent. A few extra coins would appear for the soda machine and then we would take our seats and flip through the magazines, talking idly as we listened to the swoosh of water cleaning away the dirt of our busy lives. It was at the laundromat that my mother taught me how to sort the clothes, to get out stains, when to take clothes out of the dryer before they wrinkled, how to fold sheets so they would feel fresh and sleek when stretched tight across the beds. It was at the laundromat that I learned to appreciate the quietness of the early mornings, the glow of neon, the clean powdery smell of laundry soap, and the dance of colors as the clothes tumbled and floated in the dryers.
I was brought quickly back to the present when a mother and her teenage daughter walked in with their baskets overflowing with wet clothes. The teen loaded the dryers as the mother went in search of the change machine. Then they too settled into their seats with magazines and sodas, chatting off and on as they flipped the pages. I couldn't help but smile to think of how these most mundane tasks have a way of becoming the concrete foundations of our relationships and a pleasurable pool of memories from which to dip as the years go by. I closed my book and waited quietly until the dryers buzzed, wishing I could have my mother here with me, thankful for the times we shared before the light of dawn.

I Love You Most

After a wonderful, long-awaited visit from our daughter and her family it was finally time to say our farewells and see them off for their long flight back to London. That is the hardest part of the visits, not knowing how long it will be before we will once again hold them in our arms and wrap them with our love. After hugs and kisses and trying to hold back tears we left our daughters and our grandchildren at the check-in counter of Virgin Airlines. My husband and I walked slowly down the corridor then stopped to get one more glimpse. As we stood there watching them checking the bags and pulling out passports our three year old granddaughter, perched in the baggage cart, caught sight of us. Cupping her little hands to her face she called out loudly "I love you". My husband and I called back "We love you more" to which she immediately responded "I love you most". And that is what will get me through the months to come until we see them in person again.

Rocky Day

Somehow I missed the memo that today was Take Your Raccoon to Work day. If I had gotten it I am fairly certain I would have been more prepared for the sight at the gas station this morning. As I stood pumping money into my seemingly bottomless tank I glanced across the parking lot to see a man emerge from his pickup truck with a small raccoon perched upon his shoulder. As I blinked in disbelief he sauntered into the mini-mart, the masked critter clinging to his shirt for balance. Emblazoned across his T-shirt were the words The Tree Man. I wondered what exactly one would do with a raccoon while out trimming trees? Perhaps send the animal as a scout to scare away any animals lurking in or near the tree? Or maybe Tree Man uses the raccoon as an unpaid laborer, sending the little creature up into the highest boughs with a small chainsaw to top the trees? Maybe the raccoon helps with tying off limbs by dragging ropes up the tree to the designated point? I finished filling my tank and walked warily into the store to pay. As I approached the counter there was Tree Man talking to the wide-eyed clerk. I kept my distance, not wanting to alarm the creature who was now clinging to the man's head. I could envision being attacked by this woodland creature for invading his space. I wanted to turn around and leave but I didn't want to be charged with theft so I waited quietly in line. After the man had paid for his Slushee and cigarettes he turned ever so slowly, and the raccoon scrambled from his head, across the counter, and onto the clerk's shoulder. She laughed nervously and the man stepped aside to allow me to step up. I practically threw my money at the clerk, not wanting to encourage another change in transport for the raccoon. On the way back to my car I made a mental note of the truck so I could drive on by the next time I might happen to be stopping for gas. I think I would probably make it to the next station instead. Why do people have to take their pets with them everywhere they go anyway?

From Old Comes New

I have been counting down the days until my children and grandchildren are all gathered in one place. I can hardly wait for the plane to land in Chicago, bringing its most precious cargo to American soil once again. It has been nearly six months since I last saw my younger daughter and her family. My husband has been anxiously waiting to hold his grandson for the first time and to swallow them all in giant bear hugs. I want everything to be perfect for their visit, yet I know it will not be so. I haven't managed to clean out my husband's home office to make way for a room of her own for our granddaughter. She will have to share a room instead. I haven't gotten around to touching up the paint on the bathroom wall where the new light fixtures were installed. I haven't managed to weed all the flower beds and trim all the shrubs. I haven't yet planned out the menus. But nearly perfect is good enough for me. I have managed to drag out my children's toy box and sort through the twenty-something year old toys. I had to smile when I opened a small blue jean purse to find it filled with dozens of Cabbage Patch Kids Shrinky Dinks. Dance leotards and tap shoes were tucked into a pink ballet bag. Jump rope, pink child-size weights, and assorted exercise gadgets were tucked into another bag. Rainbow Bright and Strawberry Shortcake dolls were packed away in boxes, while My Little Ponies were corraled in a small trunk. My youngest daughter's Lemon Drop treasure box was secured tightly with its tiny lock, the key to which was found hidden inside another small purse in a sliding metal lip balm case. Adjustable Fischer Price roller skates await my granddaughter's use, as do the hundreds of storybooks that I saved from my children's early years. A Rainbow Bright cassette player still seems to work and the cassettes are now sitting on a shelf just waiting for little ears to enjoy the tales to be told. My younger daughter's music box, a gift from her grandmother, sits upon the bookcase, beckoning with its tinkly song and tiny twirling monkey. The giant chalkboard is waiting to be washed down and fastened to the garage wall in anticipation of little artful hands. I was actually surprised at how many things I had kept from my daughters' childhood days. I expect that they will get a kick out of seeing some of these relics of their past. A new wading pool is stored in the garage and several new baby toys share space in the toy box for my grandson's pleasure. The car seats, strollers, baby monitors, booster chair and sippy cups are ready and waiting. It has been a pleasurely trip down memory lane getting ready for this visit. I cannot wait for the chance to create many new memories while sharing the past.

No Apologies Please

Over the years I have grappled with a question that inevitably comes up when meeting someone for the first time. In the course of pleasant conversation someone will ultimately ask how many children I have. To the majority of people this may seem illogical that it would give one pause before answering. If you have never experienced the loss of a child you cannot understand the emotion involved in the answer. First and foremost I am the mother of three daughters. In my heart and soul I will always be so. So shouldn't it be that simple to say so? But it is not so simple, so I weigh whether I am likely to see this new person again and how often I may be interacting with him/her. If I tell a relative stranger that I had three daughters but my youngest died twenty years ago at the age of seven from a brain tumor, conversation can come to an uncomfortably screaching halt. The stranger suddenly feels guilty for asking and begins to apologize so I end up trying to ease their anxiety. I hate being in the position of providing comfort to a stranger for my sorrow.

I would never say I had only two daughters but I might say that I have one daughter living in Chicago and another living in London and leave it at that, though it feels guiltily like denying my youngest daughter's existence. Or I might say simply that I have three daughters if the conversation will likely be very brief so that further questions will not ensue. If I am meeting someone that I will be seeing or dealing with regularly I find it better to have the conversation early on. I don't rush to explain but when I am asked I would go ahead and talk about it then so we can move beyond that moment of anxiety for the listener.

Don't get me wrong on this, I enjoy talking about and remembering my youngest child. She was an absolute joy and will always be in my thoughts daily. It's just that some people, usually younger adults who have perhaps not experienced the loss of a close family member, feel so uncomfortable when they find out that they get flustered and don't know what to say. They get that deer in the headlights look and you can see them mentally restraining themselves from bolting from the scene. Other people are totally comfortable with it and we can enjoy a moment of explanation without the stumbling of words and then move the conversation forward. You never know what someone's situation is so always try to be the latter. Don't make that person tell you it's okay. It is not okay, never will be okay, but life goes on and we have to make the best of it.