The One with Mom and Dad

I want to remember this one.

I am dreaming.
I am at the home where I grew up.  There is smoke in the distance.  It is somewhere downtown.  I walk there.  By the time I arrive at the scene of the fire, my dad is with me.
The sign on the burning building is "Bait and Tackle".  I want to take a picture and post it on Facebook so everyone else who can see the smoke will know what is on fire.
But I don't have my phone.  I think I left it at home.
I tell my dad that I have to go home and get my phone.  He doesn't hesitate; he's seen all he came to see, and he comes with me.
As we walk home, we are talking.  On the way, I realize Mom is walking silently just behind Dad's shoulder.  Walking with us as if she had come along to see what the smoke was and now that she has seen it, she is content to just be with us.
"Dad, Mom is here!" I bubble at him.  Then I remember Mom has died.  "You can see Mom, can't you?"
He can't.  He asks me what she looks like.
I turn to look at her.  I see she is happy and young, and I can't wait to tell Dad that her hair hasn't even turned gray yet.
Before I can tell him, though, I remember Dad has also died and realize that this visit with Dad has also been only a dream. 

As the dream fades into the next one, I hear someone laughing a wonderful, sincerely happy, full laugh.  The air fills with many voices laughing, and I realize the first person who had laughed had been me.

Mom's and Dad's Anniversary

This is my dad's watch.
His work schedule changed from first to second shift so often that, as a child, I couldn't be sure if Dad was home unless his watch was sitting on the counter next to his loose change jar.
Dad's watch always meant Dad is home.

These are my mom's earrings.
She didn't wear a lot of jewelry, but she let me open her jewelry box and try on her things when I was little.  These earrings fascinated me because you could wear them without poking holes in your ears.
I'm not sure Mom let either of my other sisters play with her jewelry box.


These are the only things I wanted when my parents died.
I keep them arranged just like this on my bedside table.

On difficult mornings, I can place my hand over these things that remind me of my mom and dad and feel their presence.

Today would have been their wedding anniversary.
This is the first year they are celebrating in heaven together.
I imagine they are dancing to this polka.

"It was just another polka,
But holy smoke-ah!
Oh, what a girl in my arms!"

Not this month, either, I guess.

I use an app to write myself notes and to send me reminders to do things.

One of the reminders I have scheduled tells me to send a "Hey, how you doing? I'm fine," email to my siblings. This reminder pings me once a month.
I set it up sometime after Mom died when I sadly realized that most of what I knew about my siblings' comings and goings I knew because Mom had told me about them. I didn't actually talk to my siblings myself for years because Mom always kept me up to date. This wasn't a bad thing; it was just a thing that had evolved.
After Mom died, I heard from no one at all.
To be fair, no one heard from me, either.
So, I decided I'd make the effort.  I would start the conversation.  I'd send a family update once a month and call my dad once a month too because he didn't have email.  And it worked fine for a good long time.

Sometime in the fall of 2014, Dad had health issues, and it seemed weird to send a "Hey, how you doing? I'm fine" email in the middle of everyone worrying about Dad.  So I skipped that month.
But Dad had complications, and that one month turned into two, then three.  I still called my dad every month, but each month seemed to bring a new issue that made it awkward to send a "Hey, how you doing?" to everyone else.
There just always seemed to be something that would come up.

Then Dad died.
And siblings got stupid.
But for the first time ever there were more texts and emails and phone calls than I'd ever wanted.
And I wished they'd STOP emailing and calling and texting me.

When things would quiet down and I'd just start to think the worst was over, something new and completely unexpected would come up again.

I haven't sent a "Hey, how you doing?" since the fall of 2014.
Meanwhile, the monthly app reminders continue to ping.

Mom and Dad's house sold last month, and all of the contents of it have been claimed or sold. A week or two ago, the final steps toward settling the estate began.
It's been quiet.
Finally.

The Husband and I have been planning to travel through Michigan for a nice long road trip, just the two of us. I hadn't wanted to plot a route through my family's hometown, but I know we should. I had told the Husband how the mere thought of being near it filled me with dread.
But since it had been quiet, I had started to think maybe it will be okay after all.

Right.

Around 4:30 today, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. Before I could read it, a second buzzed in.  Then a third.
By the time I got home at 5:30, the entire angry text conversation had flamed and died off.
I just sat and watched it happen. I didn't respond to any of it.

And I sit here tonight staring at my app reminder telling me it's time to email my siblings a "Hey, how you doing? I'm fine."

Not this month either, I guess.

My Dad: 1930 - 2015

He had a full-time job at the auto factory which helped financially support his full-time farm.
He sold off the dairy herd when his fourth child was born, and by the time his fifth child (me!) came into this world, he sacrificed a plot of good soil to build a brand new house for his wife to raise all the children.

Depending on the season, my dad worked different shifts at the auto plant.  He was either getting up long before the kids got up for school, or coming home long after everyone had gone to bed.  Occasionally, he would take weeks-long voluntary layoffs so he could get the crops into or out of the ground.
When he wasn't at the plant, he was in the barn or in the fields.

Many days when I came home from school, I didn't know where my dad was.
"Is Dad home?"
"He's out in the field planting corn."
That meant Dad was home.  He wasn't in the house, but he was home.
That was just fine.

Once, I arrived home just in time to watch Dad's truck drive away.
"Where's Dad going?"
"He's gotta go to work, of course."
"I didn't even get to say goodbye."
That was kinda sad.

A lot of nights I'd go to bed while Dad was still out.
"When will Dad get home?"
"It'll be late. You'll be asleep."

Mom told me that Dad checked on all of us kids when he'd get home in the middle of the night.  I have to trust that it's true, because I never once saw him do it.  His night time stealth never woke me.
Mom and Dad told me that one night, Dad peeked in on my sister and me.  Lily was asleep, shivering in her bed with no blankets or sheets, and I was nowhere to be found.  After a short investigation, Dad found all of Lily's bedcoverings stuffed under her bed.  When he tugged on them, he found me wrapped up inside them.  Apparently, I had tumbled out of bed, rolled to Lily's side of the room, and stolen all her blankets.  Dad untangled me, put me to bed, and covered Lily. 
I hadn't woken up.  I have no recollection of this having happened.  I have to trust that it's true.

There were plenty of other nights I woke up to hear Dad snoring.
He had that annoying kind of snore where he would stop breathing for a while and then snort in air suddenly and loudly.  (Always amusing when he woke himself up with his own snoring on the couch, btw.)
I don't know how Mom felt about Dad's loud snoring, but the sound was always calming to me.  It meant Dad was home.  It meant we were all safe.  It meant Dad was there to take care of everything.
Whatever the reason was that I was awake, if I heard Dad snoring, I felt peace, and I fell back asleep.

Dad retired from the plant decades ago.  He kept farming even after he sold the farm to his youngest son.  He sacrificed another plot of good soil to build a second brand new house to retire in with my mother.
His wife of 50 years was lost to cancer five years ago. Seven months later, he lost a daughter to cancer as well.
He fought and conquered two kinds of cancer himself.  When the kidney cancer returned, he did his best to stand his ground, but the scars from his previous battles would prevent another victory.

I visited my dad for the last time last week.  Even though we told him he didn't have to, he insisted on standing on his own two feet to hug The Husband, the boys and me goodbye.
That was Wednesday.

Army Sister texted me late Monday night to let me know Dad's time was near.  She wanted to know if I wanted her to call me as soon as Dad slipped away, or if I'd rather she waited to tell me in the morning.
"Call me right away," I texted back.
I tossed and turned for what seemed like a long time.  How near was "near"?  I almost wanted to stay awake and wait, stand watch with my siblings even if they were 400 miles away.
I wondered if Dad might come visit my dreams as he left.  I didn't really think he would; that just doesn't seem to be his kind of thing.  But if he would, I'd have to be asleep for him to do it, right?

And that's when it occurred to me.
Dad would come check on me in the middle of the night like he always used to do.  I wouldn't notice; he wouldn't want to wake me up.  I would just have to trust that it was true.
The smile formed on my face before I could even realize how happy the thought had made me.

Army Sister's phone call woke me at 12:30am.  Dad was gone.
That would have been just about the right amount of time for him to have driven home from the auto plant's second shift, gotten a bite to eat, and have checked in on all of us kids.

Best last memories with my dad

This is for me.
To remember.

***

Best memories from my last visit with my dad:

1) Sitting on the floor in front of my brother's couch where Dad is resting. Just the two of us in the room.
"So, what's new in Wisconsin?" he asks.
And we talk about everything and nothing until he decides he'd like to go home.

2) Sitting on the floor in front of Dad's couch where Dad is resting, now under the influence of strong pain killers* that render him unconscious every few seconds. Through the window, we are watching Younger Son perform his juggling act on the back deck. We weren't sure how long Dad would stay awake, so Younger Son starts with the fire torch finale rather than save it for the end.
"I see the flames!" Dad declares.
"Those are Younger Son's torches," I tell him.
"Is there a bucket of water out there in case he needs it?"
"Yes," I lie.

Younger Son spends time pulling out every item from his collection and throwing them to the delight of his aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Every time I turn to see if Dad is still awake, he is watching.
He sees the whole show.

(*Odd things Dad has blurted out of nowhere while spaced out on morphine:
- Don't put any beans with my supper.  I don't want them.
- If there's gonna be a meeting, it has to be Sunday. )

3). At this moment, I am sitting in the chair across from Dad's couch where he is resting.  He is snoring.

It is the most beautiful sound in the world.
As it always did when I was a child, it brings me peace.

My Dad Has Cancer

SO not the funny today, folks.  I'm sorry.

***

Dad's kidney cancer returned.
It is inoperable and incurable.

After trying a couple of treatments that were hoped to (but not promised to) stop the growth of the tumor, Dad decided the side effects were to much of a toll on his quality of life.

I called him this morning, and he told me himself that he will seek no further treatment and will "let nature take its course".

Doctors are guessing he has 6-12 months, but they really don't know anything.

My siblings have tried to be considerate with communication.  But we are all traveling a difficult path which makes kindness a challenge.
I used to assume that if I didn't hear from anyone, that meant everything was fine, there was nothing new to report.   Now I assume that when I don't hear anything, Dad is in the hospital and no one bothered to tell me.

So, I call my dad at least once a week just to make sure he's okay.

I am angry and sad.  And angry.
I don't sleep well.  I can't remember things. I wake up almost every morning angry with my siblings, and I'd like to say my anger is displaced onto them, but it's hard to reason with myself sometimes.
(One time is easier to forgive and forget than a lifetime of notations on a list.  Just saying.)

I only really posted this so I could remember when it was that I had this conversation with my dad.

The Good Kind of Family Rivalry

For the first time in a long time, I attended my mom's family reunion.
My mother was the youngest of eleven children.  Each one of her siblings married and had about five children of their own.  Do the math, and you'll see that on my mother's side alone, I have twenty aunts and uncles, roughly fifty cousins, and more second cousins than I will ever meet. (My dad is one of nine children, all of whom married and had about five kids each, too.  But that's another reunion..)  So, you see, this is a large gathering.  I think nearly one hundred people showed up this year.

We had a potluck at the park where we had reserved the pavilion.  There were silly games to play like "Guess How Many Pennies in the Pickle Jar" and "How Heavy is the Ham?"

We had a short "meeting" where we voted on whether or not to have another reunion next year (the vote was yes), and we raised our hands to show if enough people would be interested in activities like baseball and volleyball to bother getting out the equipment.  Most everyone just wanted to sit and visit, but the family of my mom's brother all cheered and raised their hands for each activity that was announced.
Noticing the lack of enthusiasm from the rest of the reunion, one of the brother's sons shouted, "Come on!  You guys all like softball!"
I replied with equal volume, "No one wants to play against your family!"
Laughter all around.

Before we were dismissed to wander the grounds, the winners of the silly penny-guessing type games were announced.  As each winner was announced, the excitement grew because each winner was a member of that same brother's family.
As the last cousin carried her prize back to the table, I hollered, "And that's why no one wants to play against you guys!"

I brought the house down.
It was a good day.

Just like Mom used to make.

My mother was the youngest of 11 children.  Her eldest sister passed away last week.
At the funeral, I was blessed to be told many times how much I looked like my mom. :-)

But the best compliment I got was from a cousin who gave me a big hug and declared loudly, "Geez!  I don't get you see any of you guys anymore!"
I replied, "We've been generally trying to avoid you."
He laughed and said, "Boy, that sounds just like something your mother would say."

I am still beaming.
:-)

Closing the book on all this mess

CHAPTER ONE
Five years ago, a tornado roared through my home town.  It destroyed one house, then ground its way between the three houses owned by my two brothers and my parents.  Half of one brother's 100-year-old barn was crushed.  The roof over the other brother's kitchen popped clean off like it'd been cookie cuttered.  The tornado never touched Mom and Dad's house.

CHAPTERS TWO - FIVE
In the years following... my father would fall on the ice while fetching mail and end up hospitalized because he ignored the headaches for months; my mother would be diagnosed with COPD even though she'd never smoked a day in her life; we would find out later Mom also had congestive heart failure and leukemia; my sister Lily would learn she has cancer, but would never find out what kind; in the meantime, despite conquering the leukemia, Mom would suffer a very bad reaction to a new anti-depressant that would mess her up beyond repair, and she would die two months later; Lily would pass away seven months after Mom; Dad would develop kidney cancer and have surgery to remove the tumor and one kidney.


Five years of crap, y'all.
Five crappy years of crap.
Every phone call from home meant someone was in the hospital.

Just months after Dad's surgery (which he rebounded from with flying colors), I received a call from my brother. 
Crap.  What fresh hell would this be?

But, he wasn't calling to tell me anyone was sick.
He called to tell me he was engaged to be married.

You must understand, this brother is 52 years old.  Never been married.  Devoted to his family, his church, and his farm.  Growing up, all his friends paired up and married off.  All his friends grabbed all the available gals in our small town.  There were none left for my brother.
By the time he'd turned 40, we'd become concerned he'd find anyone.  And when his 50th came and went, and Mom and Lily died, he flat out lost hope.

Yet, he was on the phone telling me the full, rich story of how they met and how he proposed on the back of his tractor (really).  So happy.  So bubbly, this 52-year-old man.

Their wedding was this past Saturday.
I met his bride the night before.  The two of them were so well suited to each other.  I liked her immediately.  Well, I liked her before I met her because she had made my brother so happy.
And she cemented a place in my heart during the ceremony when she locked eyes with my brother and mouthed the words to their soloist's song, "I've got all I've waited for, And I could not ask for more."

I wept many (so many) tears of joy Saturday.  The joy in my brother's face.  The years he had waited for those once-in-a-lifetime moments to finally happen. 
We'd all been waiting, I guess.

I would tell The Husband later that it was the happiest day of my life.  Our own wedding was wonderful, the births of our children were wonderful, but I had never, ever been as happy for myself as I was for my brother.  The Husband understood.

Furthermore, I told The Husband that when I would blog about my brother's wedding, I was going to start with the tornado.  The beginning of five really crappy years for my family.
And I would explain how it is all finally over.

Because we have this.

THE END

***

EPILOGUE
Let me leave you with this image:
After giving our brother and his new wife big, long hugs in the receiving line, Army Sister and I snuck back to the end of the line to do it again.  When our brother spotted us, we declared that we wanted another hug.  And with his arms around us both, my brother said, "A hug from Mom, and a hug from Lily?"
Oh dear God, yes.  A hug from Mom, and a hug from Lily.
Perfect.

Someday, this will come back around to me...

We set up the stage Sunday night.  (When I say "we", I mean I held things while other people screwed them together.) 

Last night was final dress rehearsal.
While waiting for my cue backstage alone in the dark, I had a very special moment...

***

One or two weeks earlier during an exhausting rehearsal, I sat off to the side trying to stay out of everyone's way. I leaned my head on some boards to rest.

Let me explain that a little better...
This particular theater group has a workshop in an old municipal building where they paint and store scenery, props, and costumes.  The entire place is a storage room.  Furniture is shoved into every corner leaving nothing more than a walkway through rooms.  Props are balanced on all available flat surfaces.  Costumes have their own room; maneuvering through it is like experiencing birth.  In the stage area, scrap wood and planks are stacked to the ceiling along one wall, and rows of flats (tall sections of scenery that get painted and assembled as background) lean up along the length of another wall.
For Harry Potter fans, imagine the Room of Requirement when Harry needed to hide things in it.

So, for me to find a place to sit was amazing in itself.
And, this is why, when I rested my weary head, it ended up leaned up against the 2x4 of a flat.

As I sat there with my eyes closed, I very clearly felt my mother leaning her head back against mine.
It was nice.
And very odd.
Because there was no reason for her to be there.

She had no connection to this theater group.
None to this building.
She had never been a "stage mom".  Never painted scenery.  Had never sewn a costume for me.
While I know she had come to all my grade school performances (because I needed a ride), the only show I remember her attending was the one she and Lily came to in high school.

There was no reason for me to feel her presence there at the workshop.
But, I did.

I sat up and took a good look at the boards I'd been leaning on.
There was nothing special about them.
Someone had written, "Jennifer was here".
Another had made a dark X above the words "marks the spot".

It made me think of how I once had scribbled my name on a shelf at college and wondered if anyone would find it.
These two theater people probably wondered the same thing when they'd left their marks.
I pulled out my pen and etched Mom's initials into the wood where my forehead had been.  It was just above a seam where two boards were nailed together.
And then, just so she wouldn't feel left out, I added Lily's initials, too.
I imagined whoever found them long in the future might think the six box letters were assembly instructions.
And I thought, "Someday, this will come back around to me..."

***

Last night during dress rehearsal, I stood backstage alone in the dark waiting for my cue.
We have a small cast of nine people, and I am the last one to go onstage. One by one they go until it's just me backstage.
(For you Harry Potter fans, it's very much like the Goblet of Fire when Harry is alone in the tent waiting to face his dragon.)

Staring at the door through which I would enter, I noticed off to the side of it a dark X on the 2x4 frame.
Really.

A little below it, I could just make out a scribble that could have been Jennifer's note.

And just above the seam where two boards were nailed together, six box letters.

There they were.
Waiting with me.

I had not expected it to come back around to me so soon.

81

Had a conversation with my dad over the phone.
The usual stuff... how's the weather... how's work... oh, hey, I've gotta get my gall bladder removed.. you know, nothing special.

And he tells me that he's had a date.
"You had a date?"
"Yeah."
"With a woman?"
"Of course."

What I said to him was, "Good."

The first thing I thought, of course, was how long Mom had been gone.  And quickly concluded that more than a year was more than enough.
"That's good, Dad."

It wasn't until later that it occurred to me why I was so very okay with it.
Dad's still living.

He's not just alive.  He's out doing stuff.  Stuff he enjoys.
He meets "the guys" for coffee every morning.  He still drives cars for the local dealership.
He's not sitting around passing time, checking his watch wondering, "Geez, I've done everything I wanna do.  How long am I sticking around here?"

In a nutshell, Dad is not this lonely man.
It did not occur to me until this very moment how how afraid of that I'd always been.
Wow.

My dad has a lot of living to do yet.
And I'm very okay with that.

Happy Birthday, Dad!
You're the most awesome 81-year-old I've ever known I'll ever know.

Scents... and sensibility

Here's the funny thing:

I didn't want any of Mom's clothes, but I took a pair of jeans and a cuddly sweatshirt.
Glad I did.
And I didn't want any of her toiletries, but because there's little chance of there being a whole lot of sentimental value attached to them, I brought some of those home, too, just to get them out of Dad's way.

This morning, the very last of my solid deodorant fell out of the container, and I had to throw it away.  It had been one of Mom's.  I'm sure of it because I usually get unscented; she did not.

I smiled to myself because I just know someday I'm gonna catch a whiff of that particular scent of underarm deodorant and think of my Mom... but by then, I'll have no idea why.

Heh.

"Steve was delicious." - Snickers shark focus group

There's something adorable about a 16-year-old boy playing with kittens along with his younger female cousins.  Still, we didn't pay much attention to Elder Son and the other kids frolicing in the yard until Elder Son shouted, "Stop tasting me!"

We all turned to see him standing stock still, his hands cupped around a tiny ball of fur that was methodically licking each of his fingers.

Frozen.  Unsure whether he wanted to put the kitten down or continue cuddling it.
The look on his face clearly said he liked it and hated it at the same time.

She still talks to me. I still don't listen.

"Watch out for the needles."

The voice was Mom's.  I was pawing through her yarn when I heard it.
"I already took out all the needles, Mom."

After Mom died last May, my sisters packed up all her yarn and accessories and insisted I take them.  Included were some crafting items and needlepoint things.  I carefully sorted through everything, donated the craft items that I wouldn't use, saved the needlepoint threads and needles in the family sewing kit, and kept the yarn in bags in the back of my closet, separate from all my other yarns.  Saving it for special family projects, I guess.

But lately, I've been hearing Mom tell me to use her stuff.
"You're making hats for the homeless shelter?  I bet there's some nice yarn in that bag.  You have so much.  What are you saving it for?"
So, I've been diving into those bags in the back of the closet once in a while.

This time, I was looking for various scraps of browns.
"Watch out for the needles."
"I already took out all the needles, Mom."
"Okay."  And then she was quiet.

Grab. Grab. 
Paw. Paw.

After choosing half a dozen items, I packed up Mom's yarn and pushed it back into the closet. 
Then, I wrapped my hands around the balls on the floor.  One of them was a little stiff.  Like the yarn had been wrapped around a bit of cardboard or something.  I picked that ball out and gave it a squeeze. 
Odd; instead of feeling a square or rectangle of cardboard, there was only one corner sticking out.
Upon closer inspection, I found it was not a piece of cardboard at all.

It was a needle.
Of course.

She still talks to me.
I still don't listen.

"Phone Home"

The only other time it happened was in high school algebra class.
The teacher was working out a formula on the chalkboard, and the solution came out to be my home phone number.

It was an odd sensation seeing the numbers up there.
Just four numbers to anyone else in the room.
But bold and obvious to me.
Significant to me.

"Hey!" I couldn't help shouting out.  "That's my phone number!"
"Is it?" asked the teacher.  She cocked her head to the side and looked at the board thoughfully. "Interesting."

I imagined she was stalling before erasing the board so that the boys in the class could make note of my home phone number.
But, no one ever called.

***

I've been taking meter readings at various radio stations since 1987.
Three sets of numbers every two hours.
For 24 years.

Last spring, just after Mom died, Dad's phone number (my former home phone number, you understand) started showing up in the meter readings.

Interesting, as my high school algebra teacher would say.

After so many years, why now?
I would have noticed that phone number if it had shown up there before.  I would have.

So, I took it as a sign.
Whenever Dad's phone number came up, I was supposed to call him.

***

Today, I realized why Dad's phone number only just started showing up now in meter readings I'd been taking for decades.
Sometime last year, the standards changed.  The maximums were raised.
Until that change, the numbers never climbed as high as they do now.
Until that change, the meter readings had been too low to reach Dad's phone number.

But, they're not anymore.

Bold and obvious to me...
I need to call my Dad more often.

Lily 1961 - 2011

These are the flowers I sent to Lily and Army Sister on Friday.


"Sisters are different flowers from the same garden."
-- Author Unknown

That's the quote I sent with the flowers.



God added our Lily to His own bouquet last night.
She was 49.
Our garden is a lot less colorful today.

Off to see The Wizard

This is a Lily Update.  It has bad news.

You don't have to read it; you will hear about it eventually, though.

But, perhaps you want to brace yourself first.

***

We have known for weeks that the super-special radiation treatments she got in September and October (the ones we were so excited for and hopeful about) were not working.

She called me Friday night to tell me she has chosen not to take a chemo treatment that was available.  The pain this chemo would cause could likely last as long as the time on earth it would buy her.

You and I know that's no way to live.
What's the point of it?

So, she has made this very brave decision to forego any further treatments.
She has surrendered.

Best guess is she has less than six months left.

***

Nonetheless, I managed to make her laugh during our conversation.

And it involved the fish:
Lily was talking about holding memorial services instead of a funeral because they are new to Kansas, and most of their loved ones are in Nashville where they raised their children and in Michigan where Lily and her husband both grew up.  So, she is considering cremation.  And she asked if I had any thoughts about it.
"Well," I tried to say with a straight face, "do you want the green fish for an urn?"
She was silent.
"Nevermind," I said.  "It doesn't have a lid."
"You'd tip me over and pour me out."
"Forget it.  You can't have the fish because I want the fish."
"I don't want the fish."
"You're not getting the fish."
"Good.  Cause I don't wanna sit here and worry about that fish showing up after I'm gone."

***

I would think, at this point, she could use some guidance and some peace, the ability to finish the things she needs to finish, and comfort to those who love her.
If you feel moved to pray, I think those would work great.

The Green Fish (now with a photo)

Each of the boys, when they saw it, asked, "What's with the fish?"

When my grandfather moved into a nursing home decades ago, Mom (rest her soul) and her siblings had an in-family auction to a) raise money for his care, and b) fairly distribute family possessions.  I remember my mom being very proud to have won the bid for a green fish vase that had always rested atop my grandparents' refrigerator.  My mom had given it to her mother for either Mother's Day or for a birthday.  I don't remember which.
But I remember how special that fish was to my mom and how important it was that she had gotten it back.

When I went home this past Fourth of July to help Army Sister and Lily (who eventually hadn't been able to come) go through Mom' clothes and help Dad take care of some of Mom's other things, I wondered about that fish.  Mostly, I wondered if I could have it.

I looked for it that weekend.
Didn't see it.  Figured it was in a cupboard or packed away somewhere special.
I had considered asking for it, but after the trauma sorting through Mom's clothes turned out to be, I forgot all about it.

Months later, during an IM chat with Army Sister, I found out she had the fish.
"How did you get the fish?  I was looking for it at the house."
Turns out Mom had asked Lily if she had wanted it.  She had not wanted it. 
Mom asked Army Sister if she had wanted it.  She had not wanted it, either.
"No one wanted the fish," Army Sister wrote, "but it seemed important to Mom that someone take it.  So, I took it."
She talked about filling it with candy and sending it to Lily as a joke.
"Well, if you don't want the fish, I do.  I'd really like to have it, actually."

How about that?  The one person who wanted it, never got asked.

So, earlier this month, when we were all home, Army Sister presented me with the fish.
"Mom bought this for Grandma in 1950," she told me.  "Did you know our mom bought it for her mommy?"
"Yeah.  That's why I wanted it.  Because it meant so much to her.  How do you know it was 1950?"
"It's written on the bottom."

Sure enough.

Mom's handwriting.



I was asked several times if there was anything else I wanted.  Dad and my siblings wanted to be sure I didn't go away wishing for something that meant a lot to me... like that ugly green fish vase that no one else cared for.

Nope.

I just wanted the fish.

I love that fish.

I really do.

Convergence

The planets aligned, and I am currently in Michigan with all of my siblings and Dad.

Image this:
Just about the time I was swinging around the southwest edge of Chicago, Army Sister was crossing into Ohio from Kentucky, and Lily was flying up from Kansas somewhere between the two of us.

It was like a tri-sister arrow pointing toward home.

Merry Christmas.

The One with the Brownie

Not a funny post, sorry.
You can skip it; I won't be offended.

I've been missing my mom this week.
No particular reason.

Probably started because I was wearing her cardigan last weekend when the temperature dipped.
And then this afternoon I was poking through some old Facebook pics my sister had posted months ago, and there were pictures of Mom and Dad lurking in there.
Crap.  That was really hard.  And unexpected.  And really hard.

Tonight at a church function, I was choosing a refreshment.  There were cookies, slices of pie.  Several brownies looked tempting, but only one of them looked "right".  So, I picked that one for myself.

I looked at it closer and marveled at how the frosting was perfect and how I'd never been able to get my brownie frosting like that.  Mom always could.
And that's when it hit me.
I picked that brownie because it was just like Mom used to make.

I cried all over it.

You just never know what stupid thing will set you off.

I'll post something funny tomorrow.
Promise.
Sleep well.