I awoke from a dream around 5:00 this morning. I dreamed that my daughter came to my bed in the middle of the night, thumb in mouth, and silently crawled under the covers with me. She was maybe 5 or 6, with short blonde hair and a blankie. I wrapped my arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her on the head. "I love you so, so much," I whispered, and felt her relax into sleep.
I know where that dream came from. Yesterday my daughter took my mother with her to shop for clothes for her new job. When I got off work I called Nikki to see how things had gone. She said they were still at it, so I drove out to meet them at Old Navy. As soon as Nikki turned to greet me, I knew it had been a trying day. Her eyes showed exhaustion, frustration, sadness. Grandma has been her best friend her entire life, but Grandma's sharp wit and intellect are being overwhelmed by dementia. Their roles are beginning to reverse. It's confusing, but Nikki will hang in there with her to the end. I put my arm around Nikki and kissed her on the head.
Soon she headed for the dressing room, and Mom followed. Nikki said "Grandma likes to see me naked," and Mom laughed. I sat outside the room on a bench, watching a young lady and her mother selecting bright dresses for a curly-haired toddler. Nikki spoke from behind the door: "I have an octogenarian you can have for free. She's free!" I chuckled and said, "I'm watching a baby out here." She replied, "I'd like to be playing with MY baby right now." "I know, Sweetie. You'll be home with her soon." Later, in the checkout line, Nikki confided, "Grandma's hard to shop with. She likes to touch every little thing." "Yes, I know," I said, "you should see how much fun we have in Wal-Mart."
We walked together to our cars. Nikki hugged us both, her head turning amusingly from one of us to the other as she said, "Thank you for going with me. Thank you for buying my clothes. Thank you for giving Grandma a ride home." More hugs, then she got in her car and drove away, no doubt wishing she could just be transported home, Star Trek-style, instead of driving for 45 minutes. Mom and I went across the street to Taziki's and enjoyed a delicious Greek meal. Every 5 minutes or so Mom would ask, "Do you think she's home yet?," saying out loud what both of us were thinking inside. "No, Mom, she's still got a ways to go." We relaxed when Nikki texted me simply, "I'm home."
My daughter is a great mother, fiercely protective but proud of Caroline's independent streak, playful yet strict. She cherishes every minute with her child even when what she most needs is a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. But she's also a scientist. She worked so hard to finish her master's in biology, spending hour upon hour in the genetics lab. Now she's landed a good job and is eager to begin, but I know that every day, every minute, she'll be torn between loving her work and missing her own little blonde-haired girl.
And so the story repeats itself and continues, from mother to mother to mother. I love you so, so much, my baby girl. I hope you know.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Sunday morning
My Sundays have changed dramatically since I moved from Brooklyn back to Arkansas.
Used to be that I would never miss church unless I was really really sick or we were socked in by a blizzard. I had responsibilities at church, whether it was teaching Sunday School or a Relief Society lesson, or visiting Relief Society meetings at other wards around the borough. I loved my responsibilities. I loved feeling needed. I loved spending the entire day in the bosom of my ward family, my stake family, knowing and being known by so many dear people. Leaving my church associations was the hardest thing about leaving Brooklyn, like my spiritual self had been yanked from the ground by the roots.
When I arrived in Arkansas, I dutifully went to my new ward, trusting that the church is the same everywhere around the world and that I would soon find friends and confidantes here just as I had in New York. I went to meet the bishop that first Sunday and arranged to have my records transferred. Bishop Smith is like my Brooklyn bishop: a very nice man, modest and soft-spoken, genuinely concerned about the welfare of the members of his ward. I told him about our decision to return to Arkansas, but didn't go into my "church resume" because I figured we'd get to that when my records arrived. I hoped I'd get a calling soon, a great way to get acquainted, but six months later I am still unassigned.
During the summer I went to church alone. I participated in class discussions, but not too much - no one likes a pushy newcomer. I went to the Relief Society "extra" meetings and struck up conversations with whomever I sat near. My liveliest such discussion was with the Gospel Doctrine teacher, an East German-born young lady with strong political views quite different from mine. I enjoyed an evening meeting where everyone brought a project and we sat together stitching and chatting and snacking. Some ladies were learning to knit, others were crocheting, and I got to show off the Mother Goose cross-stitch baby blanket I'm working on for my granddaughter. Ironically, the woman who seemed to warm to me the most was... a Bronx-born Puerto Rican whose family moved to Arkansas when her husband got a truck-driving job here. I left not knowing the names of most of the women, wondering how many of them knew my name, but hoping I'd begun to break the ice in my new home.
I've taken my mother to her church a time or two. She is a Methodist like her mother and generations before her. The service was more Catholic-like than I remembered from my childhood, but the sermon was good, uplifting and encouraging. Several ladies came to welcome us after the service. One in fact had grown up in Mom's hometown. She recognized Mom's name on the attendance sheet and spoke of going to school with Mom and her twin brother Gene. Wow. If I decided to take Mom to church there, we might both make some friends. But I haven't made that commitment, because I really believe in the Gospel I have learned as a Mormon and would not, could not, hold back from mentioning it in Sunday School classes or elsewhere.
No, I belong in my LDS church, my LDS meetings. I love what I have learned in my 15 years of membership. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, as are the men who have followed him in that role. I know that he saw Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, that They spoke to him on several occasions. I cherish the Book of Mormon, which truly is another testament of Jesus Christ, a companion piece to the Old and New Testaments. I love the Pearl of Great Price, the books of Abraham and Moses and the plain-spoken, beautiful way in which they describe the creation of the Earth and God's dealings with his prophets. I love the hymns of the Restoration and the way the Spirit moves me when I sing them. I am eternally grateful for the teachings of the temple, that families can be together forever, that there is a great Plan of Happiness, that there are degrees of Glory in which every person can find peace and rest and joy.
But right now I'm struggling to find my place right here. Since Ed rejoined me in September we have gone to church together. I cry, or come close to tears, way too often, but Ed seems to be enjoying the meetings. Last week was the first time in months that I felt happy, not weepy, in fast and testimony meeting. I listened to my husband's bold, confident testimony of love for the Gospel and thought that finally I might be able to offer my own without coming undone. But I decided against it, not wanting to offend if I slipped and mentioned my struggles. Our home teacher and the missionaries visited us last week, a visit that was very well received by my mother and brother. I hope they will come back regularly. I've been assigned a visiting teaching companion but have yet to go out with her. Truth is, even when I was a fully active member in Brooklyn, I was never a valiant visiting teacher. I'd like to improve on that if I can just remember to call my companion to plan our visits.
A Brooklyn friend recently was shocked and, I could tell, disappointed by my new routine. She told me I have always been her rock. I told her I get dizzy high up on that pedestal. My husband tells me not to be so hard on myself. I've begun to think that perhaps I'm just in a new phase of my life. Perhaps my calling right now is to spend time with my mother. Perhaps the church here is getting along fine without my help, thank you very much, and I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
This morning I tried to get Mom out of bed and off to church with me, but it was more than she could do. So today I am enjoying a quiet day at home. I've been watching the birds outside -- the great, noisy, flowing flocks of hundreds of blackbirds in the trees; the bright cardinals among the fallen brown leaves; the tiny, flitting gray birds I haven't yet identified. I hear crows calling nearby, and remember the honking geese at dawn. I hope to see the great heron that frequents the creek behind the house. My cats are on the bed - Indy snoring, Maggie grooming. The dogs are asleep on the couch in the living room, where my brother watches football while Ed reads the Sunday paper. The rain has started, and perhaps we'll have a fire in the fireplace before long. Later, I'll plan supper then watch some TV with Mom. It's a good day, a day of rest, and I hope My Savior understands.
Used to be that I would never miss church unless I was really really sick or we were socked in by a blizzard. I had responsibilities at church, whether it was teaching Sunday School or a Relief Society lesson, or visiting Relief Society meetings at other wards around the borough. I loved my responsibilities. I loved feeling needed. I loved spending the entire day in the bosom of my ward family, my stake family, knowing and being known by so many dear people. Leaving my church associations was the hardest thing about leaving Brooklyn, like my spiritual self had been yanked from the ground by the roots.
When I arrived in Arkansas, I dutifully went to my new ward, trusting that the church is the same everywhere around the world and that I would soon find friends and confidantes here just as I had in New York. I went to meet the bishop that first Sunday and arranged to have my records transferred. Bishop Smith is like my Brooklyn bishop: a very nice man, modest and soft-spoken, genuinely concerned about the welfare of the members of his ward. I told him about our decision to return to Arkansas, but didn't go into my "church resume" because I figured we'd get to that when my records arrived. I hoped I'd get a calling soon, a great way to get acquainted, but six months later I am still unassigned.
During the summer I went to church alone. I participated in class discussions, but not too much - no one likes a pushy newcomer. I went to the Relief Society "extra" meetings and struck up conversations with whomever I sat near. My liveliest such discussion was with the Gospel Doctrine teacher, an East German-born young lady with strong political views quite different from mine. I enjoyed an evening meeting where everyone brought a project and we sat together stitching and chatting and snacking. Some ladies were learning to knit, others were crocheting, and I got to show off the Mother Goose cross-stitch baby blanket I'm working on for my granddaughter. Ironically, the woman who seemed to warm to me the most was... a Bronx-born Puerto Rican whose family moved to Arkansas when her husband got a truck-driving job here. I left not knowing the names of most of the women, wondering how many of them knew my name, but hoping I'd begun to break the ice in my new home.
I've taken my mother to her church a time or two. She is a Methodist like her mother and generations before her. The service was more Catholic-like than I remembered from my childhood, but the sermon was good, uplifting and encouraging. Several ladies came to welcome us after the service. One in fact had grown up in Mom's hometown. She recognized Mom's name on the attendance sheet and spoke of going to school with Mom and her twin brother Gene. Wow. If I decided to take Mom to church there, we might both make some friends. But I haven't made that commitment, because I really believe in the Gospel I have learned as a Mormon and would not, could not, hold back from mentioning it in Sunday School classes or elsewhere.
No, I belong in my LDS church, my LDS meetings. I love what I have learned in my 15 years of membership. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, as are the men who have followed him in that role. I know that he saw Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, that They spoke to him on several occasions. I cherish the Book of Mormon, which truly is another testament of Jesus Christ, a companion piece to the Old and New Testaments. I love the Pearl of Great Price, the books of Abraham and Moses and the plain-spoken, beautiful way in which they describe the creation of the Earth and God's dealings with his prophets. I love the hymns of the Restoration and the way the Spirit moves me when I sing them. I am eternally grateful for the teachings of the temple, that families can be together forever, that there is a great Plan of Happiness, that there are degrees of Glory in which every person can find peace and rest and joy.
But right now I'm struggling to find my place right here. Since Ed rejoined me in September we have gone to church together. I cry, or come close to tears, way too often, but Ed seems to be enjoying the meetings. Last week was the first time in months that I felt happy, not weepy, in fast and testimony meeting. I listened to my husband's bold, confident testimony of love for the Gospel and thought that finally I might be able to offer my own without coming undone. But I decided against it, not wanting to offend if I slipped and mentioned my struggles. Our home teacher and the missionaries visited us last week, a visit that was very well received by my mother and brother. I hope they will come back regularly. I've been assigned a visiting teaching companion but have yet to go out with her. Truth is, even when I was a fully active member in Brooklyn, I was never a valiant visiting teacher. I'd like to improve on that if I can just remember to call my companion to plan our visits.
A Brooklyn friend recently was shocked and, I could tell, disappointed by my new routine. She told me I have always been her rock. I told her I get dizzy high up on that pedestal. My husband tells me not to be so hard on myself. I've begun to think that perhaps I'm just in a new phase of my life. Perhaps my calling right now is to spend time with my mother. Perhaps the church here is getting along fine without my help, thank you very much, and I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.
This morning I tried to get Mom out of bed and off to church with me, but it was more than she could do. So today I am enjoying a quiet day at home. I've been watching the birds outside -- the great, noisy, flowing flocks of hundreds of blackbirds in the trees; the bright cardinals among the fallen brown leaves; the tiny, flitting gray birds I haven't yet identified. I hear crows calling nearby, and remember the honking geese at dawn. I hope to see the great heron that frequents the creek behind the house. My cats are on the bed - Indy snoring, Maggie grooming. The dogs are asleep on the couch in the living room, where my brother watches football while Ed reads the Sunday paper. The rain has started, and perhaps we'll have a fire in the fireplace before long. Later, I'll plan supper then watch some TV with Mom. It's a good day, a day of rest, and I hope My Savior understands.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Sleep, glorious sleep
There are some things one should never do. Don't drive drunk. Don't go to bed angry. Don't shop when you're hungry. Well, this may be another one: Don't blog when you're tired. Let's see what happens if I do.
Because I got no sleep last night. None. Zero. Okay, maybe 20 minutes here and there, but no rest. I finally gave up at 5:30 and got out of bed, but I can't say I woke up, because I never really fell asleep in the first place.
Do I have a lot on my mind? No, not really. Too much sugar or caffeine during the day? Not at all.
So far my posts have been mostly about my mom and me. Apart from an occasional mention, I have allowed my husband to stay in the background. But sometimes he is a key player in my day, especially late at night. Minds out of the gutter, people! No, the problem is that my husband snores. And when he's tired, he really snores. In fact, the word "snore" just doesn't begin to describe it. I know that some of you girls can relate, but for those who have never experienced it -- and for me, since I just have to get it out -- here's what it's like.
It starts off slow, little snuffles. "Aww, he's really tired, poor thing," I used to think. If it were just this little rhythmic purr, I could sleep through it. But the sound never stays little. Not ever. It gets bigger, breath by breath, as he falls deeper into sleep. Soon he's snorting. Snarking. Honking. Like. A. Goose. A big one.
I can make it stop sometimes if I nudge just right, or turn him over. A well placed elbow can do the trick. But sometimes not.
Sometimes there's more. As the night wears on, the apnea sets in. The snoring gets louder, more forceful. Just about the time I want to wake him up, it magically stops. "Ahh, relief!," I used to think. Wrong! He's holding his breath. Or rather, somehow he's just not breathing. His chest continues to rise and falls, but the muscles are in spasm. No air goes in or out. This can go on for a minute or more. Then all of a sudden the body screams "AIR! I NEED AIR!" There's a sound like a snort, a gargle, a great, desperate, sucking inhalation, and he's breathing again. Then the snoring begins again, and the cycle repeats itself.
Sometimes there's kicking and jerking. Once or twice he's landed a heel to my shin and left a bruise. So when the movement begins, I'm awake and vigilant.
And sometimes there's the great gnashing of teeth. The snoring stops, and the grinding begins. The sound is something like fingernails on a blackboard, rhythmic and hard. Each chew is stronger than the last, til the jaws lock together and he holds his breath again. Nudging does nothing to break this cycle. Nothing works but to press my finger at the joint of his jaw. Of course, I have to be awake to do this.
By 5 or 6 o'clock the battle is usually over. He sleeps as peacefully as a baby. Just in time for me to get up and start my day.
Lately I've resorted to wearing earplugs. 34 decibel models. All I hear on a good night is the ringing in my own ears. But some nights -- last night -- the snoring bores right through. I may not be able to hear him speak. I can't hear my own alarm sometimes. But if Ed's really tired, I can hear that snoring.
So Ed, God bless you, I'm sorry, but I just have to "out" you here in public. After all, this is my blog, and sometimes I've just got to write it out. I love you, but some nights all I want is a room of my own.
Because I got no sleep last night. None. Zero. Okay, maybe 20 minutes here and there, but no rest. I finally gave up at 5:30 and got out of bed, but I can't say I woke up, because I never really fell asleep in the first place.
Do I have a lot on my mind? No, not really. Too much sugar or caffeine during the day? Not at all.
So far my posts have been mostly about my mom and me. Apart from an occasional mention, I have allowed my husband to stay in the background. But sometimes he is a key player in my day, especially late at night. Minds out of the gutter, people! No, the problem is that my husband snores. And when he's tired, he really snores. In fact, the word "snore" just doesn't begin to describe it. I know that some of you girls can relate, but for those who have never experienced it -- and for me, since I just have to get it out -- here's what it's like.
It starts off slow, little snuffles. "Aww, he's really tired, poor thing," I used to think. If it were just this little rhythmic purr, I could sleep through it. But the sound never stays little. Not ever. It gets bigger, breath by breath, as he falls deeper into sleep. Soon he's snorting. Snarking. Honking. Like. A. Goose. A big one.
I can make it stop sometimes if I nudge just right, or turn him over. A well placed elbow can do the trick. But sometimes not.
Sometimes there's more. As the night wears on, the apnea sets in. The snoring gets louder, more forceful. Just about the time I want to wake him up, it magically stops. "Ahh, relief!," I used to think. Wrong! He's holding his breath. Or rather, somehow he's just not breathing. His chest continues to rise and falls, but the muscles are in spasm. No air goes in or out. This can go on for a minute or more. Then all of a sudden the body screams "AIR! I NEED AIR!" There's a sound like a snort, a gargle, a great, desperate, sucking inhalation, and he's breathing again. Then the snoring begins again, and the cycle repeats itself.
Sometimes there's kicking and jerking. Once or twice he's landed a heel to my shin and left a bruise. So when the movement begins, I'm awake and vigilant.
And sometimes there's the great gnashing of teeth. The snoring stops, and the grinding begins. The sound is something like fingernails on a blackboard, rhythmic and hard. Each chew is stronger than the last, til the jaws lock together and he holds his breath again. Nudging does nothing to break this cycle. Nothing works but to press my finger at the joint of his jaw. Of course, I have to be awake to do this.
By 5 or 6 o'clock the battle is usually over. He sleeps as peacefully as a baby. Just in time for me to get up and start my day.
Lately I've resorted to wearing earplugs. 34 decibel models. All I hear on a good night is the ringing in my own ears. But some nights -- last night -- the snoring bores right through. I may not be able to hear him speak. I can't hear my own alarm sometimes. But if Ed's really tired, I can hear that snoring.
So Ed, God bless you, I'm sorry, but I just have to "out" you here in public. After all, this is my blog, and sometimes I've just got to write it out. I love you, but some nights all I want is a room of my own.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thanksgiving with the Fam
I knew last weekend that I was in trouble. I tried so hard to convince my mom that the Harp's grocery store Thanksgiving dinner deal was a good idea. It would make our Turkey Day gathering soooo much less stressful -- let them cook the bird, we supplement with some of our favorite side dishes. But Mom was adamant. "I know how to cook a turkey." And, "when my children come home for Thanksgiving, they expect to eat my cooking." Yeah, I knew I was in trouble.
So Tuesday while I was at work, I asked my husband Ed to sit down with my mom and see what she'd like to serve. They came up with a simple little menu: turkey, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, homemade rolls, the usual things. Oh, and a ham -- my brother won't eat turkey. Then they started a shopping list - which included frosted mini-wheats (my brother's favorite cereal) and what I have come to call The Sacred Milk (for somewhere in Heaven it is written that this house shall never contain less than a gallon of milk). Tuesday evening Ed and I fleshed out the shopping list with ingredients needed for the dishes on the menu. And yesterday morning Ed did all the shopping.
Yes, he did ALL the shopping. He only called me at work maybe four times to confer about one thing or another. And each time I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for helping. Because while Mom knows how to cook a turkey, she's not good at shopping anymore, and she can't drive to the store anyway. Ed got home with the groceries around noon, just as Mom was getting out of bed. She met him in the kitchen, gave him a BIG hug, and told him she wouldn't trade him for any other son-in-law. And then she sat down to read the paper.
Now, MY plan was that some of the preliminary cooking could get done yesterday. Mom gets frantic some weeknights just thinking about "what to feed The Men," so I hoped to reduce her stress level by not having to prepare everything on Thanksgiving Day. On the menu I had written a "W" beside the things that could be prepared Wednesday - the ham, for instance, since the turkey needs to cook The Day Of. But when I got home from work last night, the house vibe was like any other night. Mom, Ed told me, was really looking forward to starting cooking "tomorrow." It would be so nice to have 2 days to get ready. "June," he said, "tomorrow is Thanksgiving." "No," she insisted, "tomorrow's Wednesday," and she held up the newspaper to him. "See, it's only Tuesday." He smiled and said, "Well, June, you've got some catching up to do! That's yesterday's paper. Here's today's." And he showed her the Wednesday paper. They had a good laugh together.
So last night after supper (pizza!), we cooked the cornbread for the dressing, and the ham and the succotash and the cranberries. Well really, I did the cooking and Mom supervised. She admitted with relief and a little sadness that she was glad we were starting early, because she just couldn't have done it all. "I don't know how long it's been since I've done a real Thanksgiving dinner." We talked to my sister, who was buying 3 dozen rolls at Sam's. She and her family will be here about 1:00 today (or maybe 3:00). We made plans to get up at 5:30 to start the turkey. Or rather, Ed joked that he and I would get up to witness Mom being out of bed before noon. And then we all fell into bed.
And now it's early Thanksgiving morning. My alarm went off and I woke up Ed. He roasts a beautiful turkey, basting and slow-cooking to crisp-skinned, Southern Living magazine perfection. We had agreed last night that we would just let Mom sleep and he would take care of the bird. So I came out to the kitchen to discover . . . that Mom was just going back to bed, having already put the turkey in the oven and the giblets on to boil! I don't know how she did it, getting up early - she doesn't have a clock - but she sure did it. And she did it her way: rub butter on the bird, sprinkle with pepper, wrap it in foil, and toss it in the oven. No roaster, no basting, no muss, no fuss. She said it may not be centerpiece-pretty, but it's the way her mother always did it, and it always comes out good. I told her it would be great, and that now I get to learn how she cooks a turkey. And with that, she headed back to bed for a few hours.
Later this morning we'll do the pies and the potatoes, the dressing and the salad. My brother will get up and watch TV in the living room. My husband will read the paper and chat with us while we cook. We'll call my daughter, who's spending the day with her partner's family elsewhere in the state. And when my sister arrives, we'll have dinner.
But for now the house is quiet, people and dogs and cats all asleep but for me. The sun's just up, the crows are cawing outside, and the occasional car drives by. It's Thanksgiving, and I am home to spend it with my mother for the first time in years. More than once today I'll think about my friends back in Brooklyn, all the holidays we've passed together, and for a moment that homesickness will well up inside me til I think I'll just burst. It will be an exhausting day, and I'll go to bed tonight with sore feet and knees. But I'm happy to be here. I'm happy I can help Mom have Thanksgiving with her kids. I wouldn't change a minute of it.
And so, my friends, may your day hold contentment, love, laughter, good food. May you enjoy your parades, your football games, and every other tradition that brings you joy. Cherish the day. Cherish your family and friends. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
So Tuesday while I was at work, I asked my husband Ed to sit down with my mom and see what she'd like to serve. They came up with a simple little menu: turkey, cornbread dressing, green bean casserole, homemade rolls, the usual things. Oh, and a ham -- my brother won't eat turkey. Then they started a shopping list - which included frosted mini-wheats (my brother's favorite cereal) and what I have come to call The Sacred Milk (for somewhere in Heaven it is written that this house shall never contain less than a gallon of milk). Tuesday evening Ed and I fleshed out the shopping list with ingredients needed for the dishes on the menu. And yesterday morning Ed did all the shopping.
Yes, he did ALL the shopping. He only called me at work maybe four times to confer about one thing or another. And each time I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for helping. Because while Mom knows how to cook a turkey, she's not good at shopping anymore, and she can't drive to the store anyway. Ed got home with the groceries around noon, just as Mom was getting out of bed. She met him in the kitchen, gave him a BIG hug, and told him she wouldn't trade him for any other son-in-law. And then she sat down to read the paper.
Now, MY plan was that some of the preliminary cooking could get done yesterday. Mom gets frantic some weeknights just thinking about "what to feed The Men," so I hoped to reduce her stress level by not having to prepare everything on Thanksgiving Day. On the menu I had written a "W" beside the things that could be prepared Wednesday - the ham, for instance, since the turkey needs to cook The Day Of. But when I got home from work last night, the house vibe was like any other night. Mom, Ed told me, was really looking forward to starting cooking "tomorrow." It would be so nice to have 2 days to get ready. "June," he said, "tomorrow is Thanksgiving." "No," she insisted, "tomorrow's Wednesday," and she held up the newspaper to him. "See, it's only Tuesday." He smiled and said, "Well, June, you've got some catching up to do! That's yesterday's paper. Here's today's." And he showed her the Wednesday paper. They had a good laugh together.
So last night after supper (pizza!), we cooked the cornbread for the dressing, and the ham and the succotash and the cranberries. Well really, I did the cooking and Mom supervised. She admitted with relief and a little sadness that she was glad we were starting early, because she just couldn't have done it all. "I don't know how long it's been since I've done a real Thanksgiving dinner." We talked to my sister, who was buying 3 dozen rolls at Sam's. She and her family will be here about 1:00 today (or maybe 3:00). We made plans to get up at 5:30 to start the turkey. Or rather, Ed joked that he and I would get up to witness Mom being out of bed before noon. And then we all fell into bed.
And now it's early Thanksgiving morning. My alarm went off and I woke up Ed. He roasts a beautiful turkey, basting and slow-cooking to crisp-skinned, Southern Living magazine perfection. We had agreed last night that we would just let Mom sleep and he would take care of the bird. So I came out to the kitchen to discover . . . that Mom was just going back to bed, having already put the turkey in the oven and the giblets on to boil! I don't know how she did it, getting up early - she doesn't have a clock - but she sure did it. And she did it her way: rub butter on the bird, sprinkle with pepper, wrap it in foil, and toss it in the oven. No roaster, no basting, no muss, no fuss. She said it may not be centerpiece-pretty, but it's the way her mother always did it, and it always comes out good. I told her it would be great, and that now I get to learn how she cooks a turkey. And with that, she headed back to bed for a few hours.
Later this morning we'll do the pies and the potatoes, the dressing and the salad. My brother will get up and watch TV in the living room. My husband will read the paper and chat with us while we cook. We'll call my daughter, who's spending the day with her partner's family elsewhere in the state. And when my sister arrives, we'll have dinner.
But for now the house is quiet, people and dogs and cats all asleep but for me. The sun's just up, the crows are cawing outside, and the occasional car drives by. It's Thanksgiving, and I am home to spend it with my mother for the first time in years. More than once today I'll think about my friends back in Brooklyn, all the holidays we've passed together, and for a moment that homesickness will well up inside me til I think I'll just burst. It will be an exhausting day, and I'll go to bed tonight with sore feet and knees. But I'm happy to be here. I'm happy I can help Mom have Thanksgiving with her kids. I wouldn't change a minute of it.
And so, my friends, may your day hold contentment, love, laughter, good food. May you enjoy your parades, your football games, and every other tradition that brings you joy. Cherish the day. Cherish your family and friends. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Happy birthday, Mom!
Happy birthday, Mom! Eighty-two years ago today, the little town of Centerville, Arkansas welcomed you and your twin brother into the world. (That's you on the left, you little cutie!) You've lived through world wars, depressions and boom times, heat, snow and tornadoes. You were high school valedictorian, filling your mind with beautiful poetry and prose and grammar. And you carry all that knowledge with you today even as you forget that you fed the dogs five minutes ago.
Life has thrown you more than your share of curveballs, but you just keep on making base hits. Yeah, I'm using a baseball analogy for you, even though you regularly declare it the most boring game in the world. Truth is, you never were much for sports, or any other entertainment, for that matter. Your life revolves around family and home and hard work. Feed everyone else before you take a bite. Do laundry after your children are in bed. Never spend a penny on yourself that could be spent on someone else instead.
You learned hard work from your mother, who was widowed at 42. She gave piano lessons, took in other people's washing, picked cotton in the Arkansas heat. While your little sister played on a blanket in the shade of a big tree, you worked alongside your mother. You still talk about how heavy that long towsack was as you dragged it down the rows of cotton, how sharp the cotton bolls were on your young fingers. Your grandparents helped all they could back then, but it was your mother who worked and worked. And when she took a job in the next county, you went with her. She took in boarders, walked clear across town every day to her job in the hospital, and still somehow got you kids through school.
Your brothers went to war, came home, and became a doctor and a lawyer. Your sister's husband became a real live rocket scientist. (Here you are all together - cute shoes!) And yours, a junior high teacher. No money there, but there was love, and I think you had some good years - until his heart attacks began. The first one hit when he was only 42 and you were 33, and I don't know how you dealt with the insecurity that created. But you worked and worried and raised your kids, and sometimes late at night we'd rush Daddy to the hospital. You lost him when you were only 53 - my age now - and I remember that even during the week of his funeral you were more concerned about everyone else's comfort than your own.
Your mother never remarried, and neither did you. Not even a date, ever. You took care of Grandma til she died. Lost your beloved twin in a car wreck, an event which nearly killed you with grief. You worked until you were 70. Your older brother, now 90, has been your rock. You helped your son buy the house where you both live. And now Ed and I are here to do what we can for both of you.
A couple of years ago when I began my journey back home to you, my goal was to be here in time to throw you a big 80th birthday party. I wanted to invite the whole family, have a big dinner somewhere, sing something for you with my brother and sister. That didn't happen. But tonight you and I are going out. We'll have an early dinner, then we've got tickets to the special 50th anniversary showing of "West Side Story" at the local multiplex. As usual, you're balking at going out - "Let's just stay home." "We have to fix The Men some supper." But I think we'll make it, and I'll do my best to see that you have fun, because that's why I'm here.
I love you, Mom. You're my inspiration, the strongest woman I know. Happy birthday to you, and maaanny mooooore!!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Me time
Ahh! It's almost 11 p.m. and I am enjoying a rare few minutes all to myself. Ed and my mother are chatting in the living room. My brother is in bed. The TV is off. And I have the bedroom all to myself. All alone in the evening -- what a treasure!
This summer I found that my best shot at solitude was early in the morning. I began getting up much earlier than I needed to just so I could sit quietly and think, ponder, plan. Okay, and obsess, worry and brood sometimes, depending on what was going on in my life at the time. But mostly I made healthy use of the time, reading my scriptures, praying, perhaps writing in my journal. Occasionally I was able to retire to my room early in the evening so I could listen to music and work on a sewing project. But now that my husband is here, I rarely have a room all to myself.
It's true that I came to Arkansas so that I could be available to my family. I am so happy I was here this summer to watch Caroline while Nikki and Nick both finished their respective degrees. I'm happy that I can take my mom shopping or out to eat, go get her hair cut, take her for long Sunday drives and drink milkshakes from Sonic. I'm really pleased that my husband and my brother get along, watch football together, talk about world affairs. Both of them have been too isolated. Both are benefiting from their genuine friendship. Each is doing what he can to help the other. When I think on all we are doing together here, I feel that Ed and I are making a difference, helping each other and my family to live more fulfilling lives.
Still, between family and work, shopping and chores, I have almost no time for myself. I miss walking home from the subway on a fine summer evening. I made it a point to soak up the sights and sounds of my neighborhood, the intriguing aromas wafting from kitchen windows along the way. I knew every garden, every dog and cat along the route. I savored the smell of the ocean or the rain. I even miss riding the subway. Freed from the cares of driving, I had time to read, listen to music, observe my fellow travelers, even take a quick nap. I wasn't alone on the subway or on the Brooklyn sidewalks - in fact, I would've been afraid if I had been alone - but it was acceptable to be separate and apart, to pretend that I was alone. Here, in this house that is now my home, I feel obligated to be engaged and involved, and I'm often end the day utterly exhausted. So I try to carve out some "me" time whenever I can.
There's always something useful I "should" be doing, but I'm trying to remember that I'm no good to anyone when I'm worn out, resentful and stressed. Me time is a necessity if I am to be the sweet jelly in the middle of the sandwich that is my family.
This summer I found that my best shot at solitude was early in the morning. I began getting up much earlier than I needed to just so I could sit quietly and think, ponder, plan. Okay, and obsess, worry and brood sometimes, depending on what was going on in my life at the time. But mostly I made healthy use of the time, reading my scriptures, praying, perhaps writing in my journal. Occasionally I was able to retire to my room early in the evening so I could listen to music and work on a sewing project. But now that my husband is here, I rarely have a room all to myself.
It's true that I came to Arkansas so that I could be available to my family. I am so happy I was here this summer to watch Caroline while Nikki and Nick both finished their respective degrees. I'm happy that I can take my mom shopping or out to eat, go get her hair cut, take her for long Sunday drives and drink milkshakes from Sonic. I'm really pleased that my husband and my brother get along, watch football together, talk about world affairs. Both of them have been too isolated. Both are benefiting from their genuine friendship. Each is doing what he can to help the other. When I think on all we are doing together here, I feel that Ed and I are making a difference, helping each other and my family to live more fulfilling lives.
Still, between family and work, shopping and chores, I have almost no time for myself. I miss walking home from the subway on a fine summer evening. I made it a point to soak up the sights and sounds of my neighborhood, the intriguing aromas wafting from kitchen windows along the way. I knew every garden, every dog and cat along the route. I savored the smell of the ocean or the rain. I even miss riding the subway. Freed from the cares of driving, I had time to read, listen to music, observe my fellow travelers, even take a quick nap. I wasn't alone on the subway or on the Brooklyn sidewalks - in fact, I would've been afraid if I had been alone - but it was acceptable to be separate and apart, to pretend that I was alone. Here, in this house that is now my home, I feel obligated to be engaged and involved, and I'm often end the day utterly exhausted. So I try to carve out some "me" time whenever I can.
There's always something useful I "should" be doing, but I'm trying to remember that I'm no good to anyone when I'm worn out, resentful and stressed. Me time is a necessity if I am to be the sweet jelly in the middle of the sandwich that is my family.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Homesick
Last night I took a few minutes to play around on Facebook while I watched TV with my mom. I came across some pictures posted by one of my friends back in New York and started showing them with Mom. Pictures of a going-away party for a young couple from the Chinese branch in Brooklyn. I showed them to Mom, telling her who was who, matching the children to their parents, telling her a little bit about them.
Mom has always been good at making me second-guess my decisions, or even my ability to make decisions. I really don't think she realizes this is what she's doing when she says "I know you miss your friends. Are you sure you don't regret coming home from New York?" In fact, she says it a lot, because she forgets that she just asked me a little while ago. So I get a lot of opportunities to assure her, and myself, that I'm happy with my decision, that I'm right where I want to be.
But of course I miss my friends! I regularly spent time with people from every corner of the world, and I will always cherish those friendships and the memories we made together.
I always wondered if I could learn a little Chinese (Mandarin or Cantonese - I knew speakers of both) to better communicate with the members of the Chinese Branch of my church in Brooklyn. I wanted to do it to show them how much I respect them for having the courage to come halfway around the world and carve out a life for their families while not speaking a word of English. But I never made the time to take a class. Still, I always looked forward to my visits to that Chinese Branch, where someone would always translate for me. Such delightful people, so kind to me and so eager to help me or teach me. It was one of these Chinese sisters who gave me an entire day of her time when I was packing up to move. She sorted the contents of my food storage pantry into 14 big boxes. I silently thank her every time I see those boxes.
I miss my beautiful Spanish-speaking friends, like Jose, who always smiles. He says that Spanish is the language of Heaven, we will all speak it one day. Consuelo, his wife, is the proudest, most devoted mother ever, and the finest friend.
I miss the delightful Caribbean people in Midwood, and their Relief Society president, Alice. She and her husband Frank live the Gospel like no one else I have ever known. I loved visiting that congregation because the women in Relief Society sang with such gusto, drowning me out entirely. That didn't happen in any other congregation in Brooklyn.
I miss my delightful Filipino family - for friends ARE family among Filipinos. Everyone seems to get a nickname. Mine is Momsy. Holidays won't be the same without karioke at the Soletas!
And of course in my own ward I had every nationality mixed together in one place. In my 14 years there I came to know people from Russia, Mongolia, Haiti, Hong Kong, Italy, Australia, Sierra Leone, Kenya, Puerto Rico and many other Caribbean islands, Belize, Peru, Ecuador, Argentina, El Salvador, and the equally foreign-to-me lands of California, Utah, Canada.
But that's not all. I worked each day with Jewish people from all over. More than a few had family members who were Holocaust survivors. Some were very secular, others very devout. Many had spent a year or more in Israel, spoke Hebrew and Yiddish, and happily educated me about the meaning and history of the Jewish holidays. I worked with Muslims and Buddhists, Catholics and Coptics, Greek and Russian Orthodox, and people who didn't feel the need of any higher power.
People think that New Yorkers are cold, unfriendly, distant, but I quickly learned that they are devoted friends, fiercely loyal, generous to a fault. A New York friend is a friend for life.
So yes, Mom, I do miss my friends and my adopted hometown. I'm doing my best to make my home in Arkansas, and I'm grateful for every day that I'm here with you. But I'm homesick. I find myself tearing up unexpectedly and more often than I'd like. I'm having trouble settling into my new church and job where almost everyone looks the same and sounds the same. I'm not as brave as my immigrant friends in New York who just dive in and make their way.
The lyrics to a hymn recently pulled me up short. Grief. "Jesus can heal my grief." That's what wrong with me, I am grieving! I couldn't sing anymore that morning. I stopped in mid-phrase so I wouldn't embarrass myself crying out loud. At least now I have a word for what I'm feeling. Why didn't I see it sooner? Grief has steps and phases. There's a process for moving through it and coming out better on the other side of it. I need to work on that and keep moving forward.
After all, I haven't lost my New York friends. I have Facebook and email and the phone, should I have a moment to make a call. So to all of you who read this - I love you, I miss you, but I'm okay and I'm where I need to be. I'm happy in the knowledge that you will go on being true New Yorkers, accepting and welcoming other people like me and becoming THEIR new friends for life. Thank you for enriching my life and teaching me so much about unconditional love and acceptance and what friendship is all about.
Mom has always been good at making me second-guess my decisions, or even my ability to make decisions. I really don't think she realizes this is what she's doing when she says "I know you miss your friends. Are you sure you don't regret coming home from New York?" In fact, she says it a lot, because she forgets that she just asked me a little while ago. So I get a lot of opportunities to assure her, and myself, that I'm happy with my decision, that I'm right where I want to be.
But of course I miss my friends! I regularly spent time with people from every corner of the world, and I will always cherish those friendships and the memories we made together.
I always wondered if I could learn a little Chinese (Mandarin or Cantonese - I knew speakers of both) to better communicate with the members of the Chinese Branch of my church in Brooklyn. I wanted to do it to show them how much I respect them for having the courage to come halfway around the world and carve out a life for their families while not speaking a word of English. But I never made the time to take a class. Still, I always looked forward to my visits to that Chinese Branch, where someone would always translate for me. Such delightful people, so kind to me and so eager to help me or teach me. It was one of these Chinese sisters who gave me an entire day of her time when I was packing up to move. She sorted the contents of my food storage pantry into 14 big boxes. I silently thank her every time I see those boxes.
I miss my beautiful Spanish-speaking friends, like Jose, who always smiles. He says that Spanish is the language of Heaven, we will all speak it one day. Consuelo, his wife, is the proudest, most devoted mother ever, and the finest friend.
I miss the delightful Caribbean people in Midwood, and their Relief Society president, Alice. She and her husband Frank live the Gospel like no one else I have ever known. I loved visiting that congregation because the women in Relief Society sang with such gusto, drowning me out entirely. That didn't happen in any other congregation in Brooklyn.
I miss my delightful Filipino family - for friends ARE family among Filipinos. Everyone seems to get a nickname. Mine is Momsy. Holidays won't be the same without karioke at the Soletas!
And of course in my own ward I had every nationality mixed together in one place. In my 14 years there I came to know people from Russia, Mongolia, Haiti, Hong Kong, Italy, Australia, Sierra Leone, Kenya, Puerto Rico and many other Caribbean islands, Belize, Peru, Ecuador, Argentina, El Salvador, and the equally foreign-to-me lands of California, Utah, Canada.
But that's not all. I worked each day with Jewish people from all over. More than a few had family members who were Holocaust survivors. Some were very secular, others very devout. Many had spent a year or more in Israel, spoke Hebrew and Yiddish, and happily educated me about the meaning and history of the Jewish holidays. I worked with Muslims and Buddhists, Catholics and Coptics, Greek and Russian Orthodox, and people who didn't feel the need of any higher power.
People think that New Yorkers are cold, unfriendly, distant, but I quickly learned that they are devoted friends, fiercely loyal, generous to a fault. A New York friend is a friend for life.
So yes, Mom, I do miss my friends and my adopted hometown. I'm doing my best to make my home in Arkansas, and I'm grateful for every day that I'm here with you. But I'm homesick. I find myself tearing up unexpectedly and more often than I'd like. I'm having trouble settling into my new church and job where almost everyone looks the same and sounds the same. I'm not as brave as my immigrant friends in New York who just dive in and make their way.
The lyrics to a hymn recently pulled me up short. Grief. "Jesus can heal my grief." That's what wrong with me, I am grieving! I couldn't sing anymore that morning. I stopped in mid-phrase so I wouldn't embarrass myself crying out loud. At least now I have a word for what I'm feeling. Why didn't I see it sooner? Grief has steps and phases. There's a process for moving through it and coming out better on the other side of it. I need to work on that and keep moving forward.
After all, I haven't lost my New York friends. I have Facebook and email and the phone, should I have a moment to make a call. So to all of you who read this - I love you, I miss you, but I'm okay and I'm where I need to be. I'm happy in the knowledge that you will go on being true New Yorkers, accepting and welcoming other people like me and becoming THEIR new friends for life. Thank you for enriching my life and teaching me so much about unconditional love and acceptance and what friendship is all about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)