One Last Phase of Goodbye

The ancient lockbox always sat under the old slant-top schoolmaster's desk. The desk was a Christmas gift from Mom to Dad. She was a teacher when they met, and a couple years after he became a teacher too, she gave it to him, the desk lovingly stripped and refinished by her patient hands.

I've spent so much time in that lockbox over the past 20 months, going through their papers - SO many papers! Pictures from their childhoods, family birth and death certificates, taxes, scribbled genealogy notes, pension papers, pay stubs from the 60s, homeowners' insurance, car insurance, investments, taxes, wills, medical stuff, assorted licenses - and the deed to a house I've never lived in, but have lived with, for over 40 years. 

That house became mine when Mom passed in March 2023, and it's now been three weeks since I finalized the sale of what was called, on the 1981 survey, "The Drummond Estate."

Built in 1824, it was a little farmhouse with an outbuilding or two, and perennial gardens which, if memory serves, were a huge selling point. Mom and Dad had always admired the flowers on their daily trips to and from the schools where they taught. 

Over the years, the gardens changed; bulbs gave up after many years of bloom; raised beds replaced ground-level ones; herbs replaced flowers; flowering trees and shrubs, roses, more perennials, and more bulbs were planted, expanding the garden from its original spot in the east lawn to vantage points from windows in almost every room. 

Over the years, the house expanded from its original footprint, just as the garden had, as family members' lives and needs changed. With none of us in a position to take it over, for a variety of reasons, I've sold it to someone who will bring it up to date, allowing a family to move in and enjoy the gifts the Estate has to offer.

For a long time, even before Mom passed last year, it's been hard for me to see and feel the memories I had of the house. There are many reasons for that, including me putting up a protective shield to purposefully keep them out, and later to keep them from getting in the way of handling the estate (the lower-case 'e' is intentional), and spare me the pain of her loss, and Dad's 18 years ago next month. 

But as I walked the buyer and his team through the house, those memories started to sneak back in:

• staying in the tiny room at the top of the steep and narrow original stairs, as I described where the original house ended and additions began;
• the dogs having to be collected from the old house and driven back home (more than once, the silly pups) as I walked him around the yard;
• standing in the dining room, remembering running my fingers over the indentations in the old dining room table, where Dad marked papers for years with a heavy hand;
• looking out where Dad's little pumpkin patch (a fun field trip for Mom's elementary school kids) used to be; before that, the asparagus patch, and at some point, the Christmas trees, only a couple of which were ever harvested;
• the half-removed sidewalk leading to where the chickens made their home in one of the long-since-gone outbuildings that appeared on the survey;
• the surprise 50th-anniversary shade garden My Sweet Baboo and I planted where they'd see it every morning at breakfast; 
• the hours spent in the living room, packing little bags of herbs and spices for the booth at the Jordan Fall Festival, and singing 'Oh-ree-gano' to the tune of Handel's 'Hallelujah', leaving us giggling the rest of the night; and more.

I was surprised how much the house, emptied of Mom and Dad's worldly possessions, spoke to me. Moreover, I felt encouraged for the first time in a long time. Obviously, getting the house sold and all of the associated 'stuff' settled was a huge relief that I'd been looking forward to for over a year and a half. But it was more than that. 

If I could smile, misty-eyed, as I walked through the empty rooms for the last time, remembering where Dad's blue recliner used to be, where the stairs used to rise, where the schoolmaster's desk sat, looking out the kitchen window where I could see the moon rise, spots in each room where specific pictures used to hang, where laughing grandchildren used to open presents... there's hope. 

If the empty house, primed walls hiding the familiar colors, could awaken my memories with more smiles than tears, then maybe I can finally start putting all of the sadness, anger, frustration, pain, and guilt that have taken up so much space in my head and my heart behind me.

And maybe I can tackle the boxes of 'stuff' that came here that I've been avoiding, and the rest of the 'stuff' sitting in a storage unit that I've been avoiding even more. And maybe I can empty out that darn lockbox for the last time. 

Dad's schoolmaster's desk, the gift from Mom back in 1966? Yeah, that's here, and it will stay here until it comes time for someone to figure out what to do with my stuff. I may just keep the empty lockbox under it, for old times' sake. 

Another Phase of Goodbye

Wednesday, I stood in the floral department of my local grocery store, My Sweet Baboo by my side. Three bunches of flowers for $15 - a weekly special, according to the sign. 

There were a dozen or more buckets on the display rack, each holding a few bunches of different cut flowers, and it initially overwhelmed me, at a time I was overwhelmed by the task at hand. 

I touched, poked, and picked at them, picturing a kerchiefed older woman behind, or in front of, a market stall. Depending on where she stood, Ishe could be picking and poking and straightening her display, or picking and poking and rearranging it, searching for 'the best' of whatever she was shopping for. It made me smile, and gave me a moment to catch my breath before moving ahead.

There were several bunches of sunflowers to choose from. Mom loved sunflowers; she and Jen saved and planted seeds from ones they got at the market, and she delighted in their crop. There were a couple bunches with three flowers, or four. I kept picking and found a bunch with five. Whew.

What next? Alstroemeria - so pretty, another of her favorites. White? Yellow? Pink? How about soft red? Yes - those work! Baboo-approved, into the cart they went.

Most of the 'special deal' flowers were min-carnations, but that was OK. There were orange ones, reminiscent of Dad's traffic-stopping azalea that grew on the east side of the house. That's not a joke - people would stop to admire it, ask to take pictures of it, or ask if they could look at it up close. Yes, and yes, of course you can!  

There were burgundy-and-white ones, which called to mind the giant rhododendron, anchoring the other end of the east side of the house, another show-stopper they both loved. I was with her at the library one day, a few years after Dad had passed, and someone stopped to tell her how beautiful the two plants were. I listened as they chatted about the flowers, and life, and I had a bit of a happy tear in my eye as we headed back to the car.  

Ivory, and white, too - more carnations. They added light, and grace, as did she; the flowers different enough to add both to the cart. Teasel, sea holly, and statis; they're all stronger than they look, and while not classically beautiful like a perfect rose, beautiful nonetheless; into the cart they went, and then home, all of them into a pickle bucket on the porch.

Thursday morning, after my garden walk, I laid out the nine bunches of flowers on an old tablecloth on the porch floor, removed their plastic sleeves and the rubber bands holding their stems together, and I became the woman at the market, picking and poking and rearranging. I started with the sunflowers, anchoring each of the five bouquets I needed, trying to spread the other stems equally by volume, if nothing else. They weren't all the same, but that was OK. 

Neither are we - my brothers and me; my nephew; my uncle and my cousin. We are all different, too. Certainly, none of us are classically beautiful, but we are beautiful nonetheless. We are stronger than we look - we have to be, for what we've all been through individually and together - and for whatever is to come. 

On a rainy Friday morning, in a town that was her home for nearly sixty years, we placed our imperfect bouquets on Mom's casket and said our final official goodbye, sixteen years to the day after we said our final official goodbye to Dad. 

That part of it all, at least, was perfect. 

Father's Day 15

The portulaca are blooming beautifully today, Dad; we plant them every year, since they were one of your favorites. 

There are days I simply cannot fathom that you've been gone fifteen years... Sometimes it feels like just months ago, sometimes longer than that, but saying 'fifteen years' out loud, that's a kicker. 

I can't believe it's been ten years since I last wrote about Father's Day, or that it was the only time I wrote specifically about this day. I think that post says pretty much says everything I needed to say; maybe that's why I've never tried another one. Until today, that is.

I've written about you on your birthday, and of course in January, on 'that' day. I suspect you realize you've been mentioned many times in other posts in these pages - it's hard for me to think about important stuff without at least thinking about you, if not actually including you in the conversation. 

I'm pretty sure if I had been writing veritable pastiche when you were alive, we'd have had published reams of back-and-forth conversations on hot topics, or silly ones, of course. You were a writer too, in addition to being a teacher, and always had an appreciation for the ridiculous.

I must tell you, Dad, that I've finally come to realize, after fifteen years, why I have these darn 'mood months' filled with agonizing, frustrating, cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat days, and sleepless nights of aerobic tossing and turning, random songs playing on repeat (yes - sometimes In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida), and thoughts from days - no, weeks - no, months - no, years - no, decades ago - marching around my head, trampling on my brain. 

I used to think that June was a mood month because it's "my birthday" month (remember that?!) and because I embody many of the traits of a moonchild - emotional, sensitive, self-critical, imaginative, creative, possessing a retentive memory for even the smallest details of things and conversations both meaningful and inconsequential... I'm sure you recognize each of these individually, and all of them collectively. After all, you put up with me for over 48 years.

I used to think that January and February were mood months simply because it was the depths of winter, and the days were short and dark and cold, while the nights were long and dark and cold.

January. February. June. The mood months. 

I've always felt more helpless than usual then; I flounder more, and am more prone to my moonchildness, feeling it an inevitable outcome of some random astral alignment, and therefore out of my control. 

Dare I say, 'comfortably' out of my control? That would be easier, right?

I know, now, reflecting on 15 Father's Days without you, that it's not out of my control. It's within my control, within my capabilities, t0 react better to January, the month we lost you; February, the month you were born; and June, the month with a day to celebrate you.

Well, maybe not react better - but to react differently. To focus differently: on what's present, not on what's missing. On the fullness, not the emptiness. To remember, rather than trying to forget. So many ways of saying basically the same thing, right? Darn words...

On the third birthday after you passed, I wrote about you, and me, and about the ebb and flow of missing you.

I do miss you -- all the time, some of the time, and every now and then. I explained once that you were like a favorite piece of jewelry, one that I don't wear every day, but when I take it out of the box, it's precious and wonderful and I love wearing it. And then, it goes back into the box after a while, not forgotten, just saved for another occasion. That's you now -- sometimes you pick the occasion, sometimes I do - but you're always here, my favorite, and it comforts me knowing that.

During the mood months, I forget about that analogy; the missing you can be excruciating, as can the not missing you. When I'm not, I feel like I should be. When I am, I feel like I shouldn't be, that you would want me to knock it off. That's one of the characteristics of your random astral alignment, one that you embody as fully as I do mine.

Pisces can judge a person or situation with a guiding force of wisdom. Because of this, they can call you out whenever you're acting in ways that don't serve you... But, when a Pisces identifies these hard truths, they do so with love. 

Always with love, Dad - often a healthy dose of frustration, I know, and I'm sorry about that. But always with love. 

I feel that love now, in this moment, on this day. 

I can see your face and hear your voice telling me I can claw my way out of the sadness, out of the missing you, that it's OK to do that, that you don't want me stuck in the depths of whatever hell I put myself through in January, February, and June. 

That I can smile with the memories, instead of getting trapped in them. That I can assume I'm doing OK, in your eyes, instead of assuming I'm not. That I can take you out of the jewelry box, and put you back, and it's OK to do both.

And like always, when I take a step back and listen to you, I know in my heart you're right. I know you're here. I know you always will be. 

Happy Father's Day, Dad. 

We Have to Respect Each Other

We have to respect each other, and ideally we have to love each other, the president has said recently, in the aftermath of the hatred and racism displayed in Charlottesville.

I've been trying to take his words to heart, as I'm sure he would want me to. He also said we have to rediscover the bonds of love and loyalty that bring us together as Americans.

So today, for no real reason other than to test my ability to show respect, and affection, and love, and loyalty to each other, I decided to read the comments on this article about Malia Obama entering Harvard this week. (You'll may recall she took a 'gap year' after graduation from the Sidwell Friends school last June.)

Here's an unedited sampling of what I read:

Affirmative action at work.  I wish I could go to Harvard but I'm a white conservative.

Do you think she was really brilliant enough to get into Harvard, or was it just that she was Black and the daughter of an ex-President?

I doubt she's smart enough to do well at Harvard - she'll get an honorary degree in something like Tribal Basket Weaving simply because she's the spawn of the worst President in American history. Such a brave, entitled failure she will become.

When a rich white kid gets into Harvard it's called a family connection. When a rich black kid gets in it's called Affirmative Action.

She's kinda dumb. Not Harvard material, but she is black. 

No, what I see is a black daughter of a black ex president being granted admission to one of the most prestigious colleges in the world SUPPOSEDLY on her academic records and abilities. To eliminate any question of impropriety by the admissions office by making public her academic transcripts and the transcripts of say the top 10 applicants to the college that were denied admission. You want to eliminate the questions of racial bias then put up those transcripts and make it totally transparent process that dispels any favoritism due to race or family ties. 

Anyone have her SAT scores? Yeah that's what I thought.

Harvard's standards have dropped so low they really don't count as anything anymore.

She will be just another pregnant crackhead by her junior year.

Wow. Wish I could afford to send my daughters to Harvard but we are white and only make a six figure income. :(

 Was she breakdancing all the way there?

I can remember when going to Harvard meant something, but today anybody can get in with a little political influence.

Hopefully she shaved her mustache first. Most Americans can barely keep their homes, but at least the Obamas can vacation and go to Harvard. They're more deserving I'm sure.

She already has straight A's and a PHD. Ain't being black great?

Has Malia picked her gender out yet for college?

Oh Wow??? AND THIS IS NEW HOW??? AMERICA NOTICE THAT EX-Prez BARRACK HUSSEIN obozo IS SENDING THESE GIRLS TO A VERY EXPENSIVE AND EXCLUSIVE UNIVERSITY???!!! WHILE YOURS AND MINE HAVE TO ATTEND A STATE UNIVERSITY AND GET OVERLOADED WITH CLASSES THAT THEY CAN'T GET AND LOANS THAT THEY CAN'T PAY OFF???!!! WAKE UP AMERICA!!! YOU AND I ARE PAYING FOR THAT???!!! 

No chance for a white conservative with the best grades, talents and work ethic. Only elite trash.

Now she gets to be depressed for 4 years, after she finds out just how unqualified she really is. It happens at all the Ivies to the AA charity cases. Its really kind of mean. But heck, it makes the liberals "feel good" about themselves. And after all - that is all that really matters to them.

 Another happy Affirmative Action black person at a Historically White School! I wonder what will happen to the White or Asian kid who got passed over by Affirmative Action? If her Mother & Father hate Whitey so Bad, what is their daughter going to this school ?

they go to school to be able to take provision from their high paid positions Never enough they dont raise salary because if its for all how will they satisfy their sick ego to be superior

 bullwinkle junior by another name.

and what were her qualifications to get into Harvard? Did she write black lives matter a 100X? 

This girl will be so screwed up and confused after she played the role of daughter to a homosexual man and and a tranny mom.

Ah yes. Respect, and ideally love, and affection and loyalty and baseball and apple pie, all tied up with a pretty little bow, don't you think?

The president also said that jobs will solve the problem we have with not being able to respect and love each other.

We have many companies, I say, pouring back into the country. I think that's going to have a huge, positive impact on race relations. You know why? It is jobs. What people what now, they want jobs. they want great jobs with good pay. And when they have that, you watch how race relations will be.

Please, president Trump -- I beg you -- put these people to work, so you and I can start respecting them and demonstrating our loyalty to them.

Please.