Mom

As we drove the final miles towards my Dad's house, I wondered whether I would also feel my Mom there, too.  I wondered if he changed the house already, or if her things were everywhere.  I wondered how that would make me feel.  I really didn't know.  Part of me hoped I would feel her there, and it would be peaceful.  Another part of me didn't want her presence anywhere around me and hoped he had already gotten rid of everything.  With that being said, I figured it was going to be rough either way.  And it was.

I was all right the first day.  It was the second day, after Joe and Dad and the boys headed to the docks that it hit me.  I was alone in the house, and I could feel her there.  Her decorating touches on the house, a sticky note with her handwriting in the kitchen.  I did my best to ignore all those things, and was doing a really great job of it until I was looking for a pan in the kitchen.  HER kitchen.  I opened up the cupboards and saw her cookbooks, and her old wooden recipe box and shut the door as quickly as I had opened it.  And I left the kitchen.  I didn't want to be there.  I felt like I was intruding.  And I suddenly got the worst headache I think I have EVER had in my life.  I honestly felt like she was sitting on my head.  I couldn't shake her, or the terrible feeling I had.  Joe could tell when he came back from fishing that I was struggling.  And he was right.  I am thankful that he talked to me for a long time and made me feel so much better.  I apparently hadn't dealt with her death as well as I thought I had, and the anger I was feeling was eating me up inside.  I will never ever know why things happened the way that they did, why she had to die leaving our relationship in the state it was in.  Why I couldn't be there to help my Dad take care of her before she died.  I hated feeling like an intruder in her kitchen.  The kitchen was the place that she and I spent most of our time.  We had the kitchen in common.  It was our "thing".  I spent a good portion of the next few days in prayer, praying for help getting through the anger that kept taking over my thoughts.  

My Dad had previously told me that anything that belonged to Mom was mine, and that I needed to go through her things and take what I wanted.  I only wanted a few things, and those items were the old wooden recipe box and two of her old cookbooks.  I had walked around the house, looking at the old depression glassware she had collected since I was a child, the paintings, the pictures on the walls... hoping for a connection.  The only connection we really had was in the kitchen.  But it was a deep, strong connection.  I do have my own depression glass collection and one day would love to add a few of her pieces to my collection, but I'm not emotionally ready yet. 

When I first got married, my Mom started a recipe box for me.  She bought me the same wooden box that she had at home, and added some old family recipes to it as time went on.  After our falling out, the recipes stopped coming.  My wooden box that matched hers was too painful to even use, so I put it away.  I missed two of her cookbooks so much that I stalked ebay until I found them and bought them.  But they were never the same.  The handwritten notes inside were some other random ladies notes, and not in my Mom's handwriting.  But the old familiar recipes were inside, and that was important too.  I could officially make her famous Christmas Caramels myself, and I do.  Every single Christmas.  

And then my Aunt Cyndie flew in for a portion of the week, and she made me feel a thousand times better.  Her presence in the house was a huge help for me.  What a blessing she was to have around.  And suddenly, my headache began to fade.  And I began to feel less like an intruder.

The last day of our trip, I finally got the courage to open that cupboard back up.  I reached in and pulled out the two old cookbooks that were part of a set that was a wedding gift to her back in the late 1960's... the ones I had duplicated from ebay.  I opened them up, and pages upon pages of her notes looked back at me.  The inside cover of one is scribbled in by me when I was a very small child.  

Hundreds of loaves of her banana bread have been baked from this page.

The strange thing is that at one time she had the entire set of these cookbooks.  Over the years, I imagine when she downsized before moving to Washington, she threw the rest of the set out and only kept these two.  The same two that I had purchased from ebay.

And the old wooden box is full of old notecards, yellowed newspaper clippings, and newer printings from the internet.

I told my Dad I wanted those things.  He had offered up all her belongings.  Her antique glassware collection, her antique Eastlake style furniture, everything.  And here I was, telling him I didn't want it, I only wanted two tattered and old books and a wooden box full of recipes.  It wasn't about the monetary value of any of her things.  The value of those books and that box are priceless to me.  

When Shandi came into town, she desperately tried to find some sort of connection between her and my Mom.  She found it in the form of her costume jewelry, which my Mom would let her wear when she visited.  But she also found two other pieces that she brought to me, and showed me and I decided to bring home.

One was her engagement ring.  I have never ever once in my life seen her wear this ring.  I always assumed she kept it away and never wore it because she was such a no-frills kind of lady.  I will never really know why she never wore it, but that's my assumption.  It was very important to her though, because she never ever let me touch it.

The second was a ring my Dad bought her from Thailand when he was serving in Vietnam.  It is a beautiful and fancy cocktail ring made of opal and sapphire.  I used to beg my mom to let me wear it, and on occasion she did, as long as I sat on the floor right next to her jewelry box.  I would dream a little girls dream of how beautiful Thailand must be.  Since then, I've actually been to Thailand and well, yeah.  Not so much.  But the ring still holds the magical memories of my childhood.

The memorial my brother and his wife Jillian planned (mostly Jillian) was very nice.  She did a wonderful job of bringing family together to just hang out and eat, and have a nice time together.  That's what my Mom would have wanted.  She does not like to be the center of attention.  We prayed, ate, and all the grandchildren got white balloons.  My brother read "Goodnight Moon" out loud, and the children released the balloons with a happy thought or wish for their Grammie.  Shandi struggled mightily this day.  I am extremely proud of her, because being in her shoes had to be absolutely miserable.  She felt abandoned and was hurt.  Greatly and deeply hurt.  She had a lot of healing to do, but I think this trip was a great start.  She cried so much that morning, and she disappeared for awhile at the memorial.  Thank goodness for Joe and his ability to communicate with her.  I am so thankful that he is in her life.  Without him, she would be a lost soul I'm afraid.

After "Goodnight Moon" was read, I read a poem that my Mom wrote just before her death and left for my Dad to find and pass on to us.  I tried very hard not to cry, but it didn't work.  I cried through the whole reading.  Hansel was the nickname my Mom often called my Dad.

"Just in case.  To Hansel and my children."

"Do not stand by my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow

I am a diamond glint of snow

I am the sunlight on ripened grain

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awake in the morning hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush,

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starshine at night.

Do not stand by my grave and cry... I did not die

I love you,

Mom"

The day was wonderful though, because it brought our family together in ways it hadn't been in years.  I hope and pray that is what she wanted, and that she was happily smiling down at us all gathered together for the first time in so many years.  I get so upset thinking it didn't have to be like that... but maybe it did.  Maybe it was the only way.  I will never know.

I did not take pictures the day of my Mom's memorial.  Any pictures below were taken by a family member and copied from facebook.

I had the blessed opportunity to visit with my Aunt Janet (Mom's sister) and her beautiful children and grandchildren.

Aunt Janet has been there for me through some pretty dark days.  She always stood beside me through the situation with my parents, and I thank her for that.  I know it wasn't easy, and I'm very grateful.  I love her so much.

Her beautiful girls Mandy and Natalie, and Stella, Natalie's newest addition.  My cousin Chrissy was also there with her beautiful girls, but I can't find a picture.

This was the best part of the day.  Cousins, all playing together for the first time.  What a blessing.  

And this is my second cousin BK.  I love her dearly.  I have mentioned her before in the post about genealogy.  She has been an amazing source of strength for me since we reconnected after Mom's death.  I've never not seen her kick a situation right square in the behind, regardless of how awful it may seem.  She was always a "pick yourself up and dust yourself off and keep on moving" kind of lady, and she made everything she did look easy.  I am so thankful that I was able to see her, even if it was only for a few hours that day.  It was enough to charge my batteries for a long time to come.

The afternoon of I believe the third day we were there, my Dad took me into his closet and pointed to a box on the shelf.  He very casually said

"That's your Mom up there in that box.  You and your brother need to figure out when we are going to go take her ashes where she wanted them."

Sigh.

I contacted my brother, and on the last day of our visit, we traveled to Nooksack Falls near Mount Baker to follow through with Mom's wishes of scattering her ashes over the falls.  She and my Dad used to take long scenic drives up the winding road to the falls and she loved it there.  

I sure love this man.  This is my brother, we are on our way to the falls.  Shandi came with us, and I'm really glad she did.  She was a great strength to my Dad that day, and she stuck close by him to make sure he was all right.

I was a mess.  I'm so thankful that my brother has a wonderful sense of humor and can lighten up the mood of anything.  My Dad has the same sense of humor, but he seriously doesn't even realize it as the stuff comes flying out of his mouth.  

We are preparing to scatter Mom's ashes, and he gives my brother one last piece of advice.

"Don't stand downwind, you don't want to accidentally snort your Mom up your nose.  Keith Richards did that, purposely though.  He snorted his Dad on purpose."

WOW.  Hahaha!  And to think, he wasn't even trying to be funny.  He was serious with his advice.  

The falls were beautiful, and she rested peacefully in the way that she wanted.  It was very difficult for me to see her go like that.  I am not a big fan of cremation, especially after seeing her disappear over the falls like that.  I told my Dad he better let my brother attend to his ashes, or I will have him sitting over my fireplace forever.  I told him I'd pour him a scotch on Father's Day and his Birthday if it makes him happy, but I'm not "disposing" of him ever.  

Dad then says, as he is crying...

"Well, there she goes.  She will be in Ferndale (downriver, where he lives) by nightfall".

Again, the humor he doesn't even know he has.

Nooksack Falls

This trip was healing for me, the visit was healing but painful.  I have my family back, and for that I am so very thankful.  But I miss my Mom terribly.  Having my family near me along with the steadfast love of my dear husband has helped me deal with the sadness and anger.  

It will take time to soften the remainder of the rough edges.

Goodnight, Moon...