The other evening, on an episode of Last Man Standing, Tim Allen’s wife, Vanessa was discussing her favorite Thanksgiving tradition—the gratitude list. She encouraged everyone in her family to add items (big or small) to the list—anything they were grateful for. They would then share the list before they enjoyed their Thanksgiving meal. I was inspired to do the same.
As I sat to make my list, at first it seemed daunting—the country is a mess! Inflation, corruption, rampant crime, impending nuclear war! Sigh…not much to be grateful for there. So, I took a deep calming breath and started again. This time I forced myself to look beyond all that mess and saw a veritable cornucopia of wonderous things to be grateful for.
There are the BIG THINGS…
There is God.
There is my husband.
There is my family.
There is my home.
There are my friends…
Friends who make me laugh.
Friends who inspire me.
Friends who share their stories and listen to mine.
Friends who keep me sane.
There are daily indulgences…
Like smelling fresh cut grass, bacon frying, and cinnamon buns baking.
Like hearing a child laugh, and the words I love you whispered in my ear.
Like leaves changing colors, babies smiling, and bolts of colorful fabric.
Like tasting freshly grilled steak, sweet watermelon or my hubby’s coffee.
And then there’s politics…
I’m grateful Nancy Pelosi is not twins.
I’m grateful Joe Biden spends so much time away from Washington.
I’m grateful Hillary Clinton did not win in 2016.
I’m grateful Donald J. Trump is an America First fighter!!
November is a month steeped with traditions and family activities. One of my favorite traditions involved the Snow Charts. As I mentioned before, the kids were always apprehensive when the snow started to fly, because their father had to travel down the mountain road we lived on at that time. One snowy day in early November, I kept them busy making Christmas gifts for their grandmothers while we waited for my husband to call and say he arrived safely at work.
(The craft itself was a measuring stick for the yard, sort of like this…)
As we painted the pieces, we began to speculate about the coming winter and what they hoped would be a great amount of snowfall…and the idea of the snow charts was born. One child would be responsible for the Snow Depth Chart. The premise was simple. To win the prize, you had to be the most accurate predictor of how much snow we got at the house for the winter season. At dinner that night, my husband helped them determine the optimal place to put the measuring yardstick. The child who made this chart was responsible for accurately measuring the snow in the yard at that point and entering it on the chart. They also had to record on the chart everyone’s guess at what the final amount would be.
The other child would be responsible for the Snow Frequency Chart, which would maintain and record the number of storms and our predictions of when the largest snowfall of the season would occur. Naturally we had to vote on the rules, such as only storms dumping an inch or more of snow would be counted and the guess for when the largest snowfall occurred was expanded to a week and not a day. The responsibilities would switch every year and the kids were encouraged to make their charts as artistic as they could. And there were additional prizes, of course. The competition grew increasingly fierce as the kids got older, because they no longer coveted a $5 prize—they lobbied instead for Get-out-of chores FREE cards and longer curfews…LOL
If you found a picture like the one above in a family photo album in a trunk in the attic, what would think? Would you be aghast at finding one of your favorite uncles in the group? Would your opinion of him change? Would you have questions? Would you make discrete inquiries of other family members? Try to recall details at family gatherings that you maybe dismissed as “quirky”? Would you spot the young boy in the bottom row and suspect “grooming”? Would your thoughts turn suspect and ugly?
Or would you find this picture and praise your uncle for a bold choice during a time acceptance couldn’t be guaranteed? Would you happy he had a place where he fit in? Would you consider that group “trail blazers”? Brave forerunners of today’s transvestite community? Would you be proud?
Well, my uncle IS in that picture. He was an Army Veteran, married to my aunt for over 40 years. They never had children—a horrible miscarriage early in their marriage left her unable to have children. But they loved all their nieces and nephews. They were happy and very much in love. He was one of my favorite uncles.
After his service in the Army was over, he found a good job and they settled close to my parents. He enjoyed sports cars—owned quite a few over the years—but they were all 2-seaters. My aunt and uncle’s lives centered on each other. And he adored playing softball and later basketball as well.
He was a member of a local softball league, and played as often as he could. In the late 1960’s he answered a call to join a different league—one dedicated to charity. The team was called Sally and her All-Stars. All the players on Sally’s team donated their time and talent to helping others. All the monies raised went to needy families or worthy causes. The catch? Every player donned a wig and women’s clothes. They didn’t shave (their legs or their faces…lol) or wear make-up–just the wigs and padded clothing.
(From their playbill) During the first four innings of the games, the players thrill their audiences with real serious ball playing—then, for the last three innings turn the thrills into laughter with comedy acts.
Crowds adored them! I remember laughing and cheering at numerous games when I was younger, and I do not enjoy baseball or it’s relatives. But these games were much more than that—they were hilarious. Later in the playbill, it’s stated that Sally and her All-Stars were undefeated—scoring 168 runs in 7 games while allowing opposing teams only 22 runs—so these were skilled athletes! They entertained us, had a ball doing it and they generated thousands of dollars for needy local families in the area.
So, yeah…when I see that picture… I’m PROUD of my uncle! He had hairy legs and a heart of gold.
I have fond memories of trick or treating as a child. Up to a certain age, my dad would walk along with us girls, while my mom stayed home and handed out candy with my little brother. We wore costumes made of synthetic-easy to catch fire- fabric and plastic masks on elastic bands sure to obstruct your vision and make you sweat buckets. We always had trick or treat on a Friday evening from 6-8 pm and each house invited you in or at least tried to guess who you were. We had no flashlights, no reflective tape, no glow sticks. If you wanted candy, you took your chances.
The house at the end of our block was always decked out to the nines in spooky decorations. Scary music blared through speakers in the windows. The older couple was always dressed as a werewolf and a witch and they loved playing their parts to scare the neighbor kids. It was a grand tradition we always looked forward to.
Our Halloween treat bags would get full quickly because every house in a 4-block square had their lights on—meaning they were giving out treats! And oh, what treats we’d get—popcorn balls, full size candy bars, caramel apples and goodie bags! Those were awesome! Little paper treat bags filled with penny candies—even candy corn! (I love candy corn!)
The whole experience was creepy and such fun! Fast forward a few years (never mind how many) and the government has sucked the fun out of trick or treating. Gone are the spooky hours—now it’s held on a Saturday between 2-4pm. Gone are those masks too. Now it’s make-up (which is presumably non-toxic). The candy bars have shrunk; the popcorn balls are gone, as are the caramel apples. And those treat bags? Not allowed. Nothing unwrapped or homemade is permitted.
But the final nail in the coffin of the holiday was the vans. After we were all grown and out of my parents’ house, they would sit on their front porch and hand out candy bars to the trick or treaters. A few years later, the vans started pulling up at the end of the block. The doors would open and larger kids (translation: teenagers) would pour out, sans costumes, and approach the houses. They wouldn’t even call out trick or treat. They just thrust their pillowcases out and expected treats. And since they weren’t wearing any masks, it was easy to tell that none of these “kids” lived in the surrounding neighborhoods. That’s when the magic of Halloween died for my parents.
As I’ve previously mentioned I worked in a factory for most of my young adult life. It was close to my parents’ home, and because we were paid piece rate, if you were good and fast, you were rewarded with all kinds of opportunities to learn different jobs and work with different people. In the overlock department, I met Maria. She was a friendly, recently married, young Portuguese woman. Her English was excellent and she often translated for the many older Portuguese women who worked there. I worked alongside her while she hemmed sleeves and I ran the binding machine.
One night, I had the strangest dream about Maria and I walking in the woods. There were trees and grass and I was holding the hand of a young boy—and so was she. As we walked, I realized it wasn’t woods, but a cemetery. That was the entirety of the dream. At work the next day I told her about the dream. She said I was weird, we laughed and forgot about it. Two years had passed and Maria and I remained friends. I helped throw her baby shower at work when she got pregnant. Within two years after that, I was also married and had a son—just like Maria.
Life went on pretty much as usual for a while at the factory. We sewed, filled orders, pretty much routine stuff. Then one day disaster struck my life—my estranged husband died. His parents had him cremated, refused to pick up his ashes and didn’t even tell me about it for several days. We had no services for him. We simply moved on. The following year I began evening classes at a local college in preparation for making a better life for my son and I.
And then one Tuesday morning, the Portuguese ladies were all upset when we arrived. Several of the husbands of the ladies all worked together at the same construction company laying pipe. There’d been an accident—a cave in—and 2 men had died. Maria’s husband was lost.
Maria didn’t come back to work for 2 weeks, but I remember the morning that she did. She came into the overlock room and I saw her look around till she saw me. She marched right up to me. “How did you know?” she screamed at me. I took a step back, honestly not remembering the dream till that moment. The cemetery…the 2 little boys…and us.
Header pic lists the ancient Classic Egyptian bloodlines of my Saba Kharazaarouf, which was his full registered name. His sire was Zaaris (dapple gray) and his dam was Kharoufa (chestnut); there was also strong black in his bloodlines, and my ultimate dream Arab was always a black – not that I didn’t dearly love my Z, mind you! But we hoped to get a black foal from him. He shared bloodlines with Cass Ole, the horse from “The Black” movies. I have a pic of HB standing on a step stool next to Cass Ole in his paddock – we went to a Lippizzan show at the Capital Center outside DC and he was in the lobby.)
When I posted some Arabian horse pics recently, I commented briefly about the physical characteristics and was going to go into a detailed explanation of all the others, then a little voice came to mind: “That would make a great open!” Yes, Pat – I hear you! LOL
So, here it is! These are all stock pics and all of the specific descriptions I am using are for this first picture. I’m going to test you to see if you can point out the similarities in the others!😉😉😉 Open the pic in a new tab and enlarge it, if you need to.
This is the pic of the blood bay Arabian I posted – spitting image of my Z:
Let’s start with the head: Look at the top of the ears, which are a scimitar shape, moving down to the forehead – see the bulge? Note the very broad jaws, rather short head, the foreward-and-wide-set, big eyes, quickly tapering to a dish-shaped, slender face and nose, ending with the huge nostrils (which is why they are called “Wind Drinkers”), yet a small, almost dainty mouth.
OK….moving on….go back to the top of the head/neck. Note that it is a short neck with a dramatic arch, set high into the shoulders, which are broad and well-muscled, set into the short barrel of the body. The concave profile and flagging tail are not the only peculiar features of the Arabian. Many also have one less lumbar vertebrae, pair of ribs, and tail bone than other horse breeds. Also note what is called the “tabletop back,” i.e., straight and level, with the tail set high up into the spine.
“Flagging” his tail
Back to the front: note the wide-set front legs, very well developed chest, straight and unblemished legs, wide and substantial knees, slender, almost fragile looking cannon bones (main bottom leg bone), clean, small ankle, with a short, straight, upright pastern (between the ankles and the hooves).
The knees of young Arabians do not “close” as early as other breeds. There is a gap in the center of the knee that does not fuse until around the age of 4. This is why it is wise not to do any strenuous training that will stress the knees until then; when Arabians age, the knees are often where the damage shows up first. Nine times out of ten, it is because they started training too soon. Trained and cared for properly, Arabians can continue to thrive and perform well into their 30’s!
Even newborn’s show the basic conformation – that nose would be called an “extreme” tea cup dish face)
As to the hooves of desert-bred Arabs, in a natural setting they rarely need a farrier to trim their feet. Given a “normal” pasture/grazing area with the occasional stones/rocks/gravel, and their clean, proper conformation, they wear off naturally. Under normal life, barring stepping on something and injuring the heel or frog of the foot or being out in wet, muddy ground for an extended period (which can cause a disease called “thrush”) or being a “working” horse, they don’t require intervention.
I had my Z for 17 years and not once did I ever have to call a farrier. That entire time, a farrier looked at his feet twice – I wanted to make sure Z was good and, since they were there anyway, they agreed to check him out. First guy, said nope, doesn’t need anything. Second guy looked, shook his head, dropped Z’s hoof in disgust, and said, “These damned Arabs!!! I’d go broke with just them!!!”
Note the difference in the conformation, specifically of the hooves, between the Arab and this one. You can clearly see the dropped heels, the long toes, the slightly slanted pastern. Of course, you can also see the difference in conformation overall.
I can’t identify which breed this is but it seems to be a pony of some type.
Most people not in the horse world have never heard the phrase “showing at liberty.” That means the horses are not on leads and are running free, oftentimes without even a halter. This is a video of a woman with her Arabians working at liberty:
Another Arabian show event that I always loved is the Costume competition!!!
My husband and I had only been dating a couple of weeks when THE POSTCARD came. I was sitting on the sofa when he brought it in with the mail. A dark look crossed over his face and I was curious. “Anything wrong?” I asked.
“It’s the family reunion,” he replied.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s…nice?”
He sighed loudly and sat beside me. “You wouldn’t want to come, would you?”
I couldn’t read the emotions playing out on his face, so I just smiled. “Sounds like…fun?”
I was wrong.
His family reunion was held every year, the first weekend in August on a quaint family farm. We drove past cornfields and silos and a huge red barn. At the end of the drive was a charming farmhouse. The entire setting was picturesque and perfect and I was completely puzzled about his initial reaction.
To the right of the farmhouse was a large yard with a huge tent set up, covering several long tables of food. Guests were seated around the tables, eating and chatting and having what seemed to be a grand time! As we got out of the truck, we saw that several people were starting to clear their plates and cover the remaining food and my future husband (FH) directed our little group (the two of us and our two children) to chairs that were set up on the opposite side of the driveway.
FH ushered us to the very back row and soon his parents and his brother and his family joined us. As the rows filled in, an adorable young girl passed out…programs? (huh?) I turned to my FH and started to ask about them, when a little boy carrying the American Flag caught my eye. He stepped to the front of the gathered family and everyone stood and recited the Pledge of Allegiance. (Okay…?)
The boy moved off to the side as an older man came to the front of the group and led the family in the Lord’s Prayer. As we sat back down, I noticed plates being passed among the rows and I turned to FH. He whispered, “you’ll see,” as he dropped a $20 in the plate and passed it.
The same man welcomed everyone to the Family reunion and asked that the Secretary rise and read the minutes of the last reunion. (excuse me?) Yup, a sweet looking, older woman rose and read the minutes, which were then approved and she sat back down. The speaker asked for the Treasurer to rise and give her report. Another woman rose, and reported how much money had just been collected. Then she announced the expenses the reunion had incurred over the year: a tent repair, printing of THE POSTCARDS, prizes and items for the games, and, she said, of course the ice cream! Excited murmurs went through the crowd and many of the children clapped at the prospect of the ice cream!
But alas, the meeting was not over. We sat through old business and new business and then came the children’s presentations. Child after child came to the front of the group and sang songs, recited poems or played instruments. Finally, the “business” portion of the reunion was over and the older man announced the games were being set up and the ice cream would be served! (The ice cream was hand churned and you had a choice of A scoop of chocolate OR A scoop of cherry vanilla—there were no seconds.)
But before any of that happened, we were all asked to line up for the group family photo. Apparently this reunion has reunion scrapbooks dating back to the very first one (don’t ask me what year, by now I was numb and wondering what I was dating into). We dutifully lined up, adults in the back, children in the front and smiled for the camera.
While we ate our ice cream, FH told us that the games were broken down by age group, starting with the youngest and working their way up. Since we had some time, we walked around, examining the family tree (written down on a window shade—and tracing the family back to the Mayflower—I kid you not), petting the animals and watching the older man from the meeting (the reunion president?) back a tractor out of the barn. There was going to be a hayride (not having grown up on a farm, I was NOT looking forward to that—would this day never end?)
On the long ride home, FH was quiet and from the corner of my eye, I could see him stealing glances at me. Finally he found the courage to ask what I thought…was it just too weird to be a part of? I laughed, told him it was charming in its ways, and reassured him we would be fine. After all, I said, you’re coming to my family reunion NEXT month…LOL
Thankfully, we were able to get the military to agree to pay for a home birth. I doubt if that would happen today. Family Birth Associates helped us organize everything. They introduced us to our midwife, who insisted I participate in Lamaze classes, which teach you how to breathe during each stage of labor, among other things. If the Father is available, they are also required to take the classes to learn the proper way to support the Mother. She gave me the name and number of an RN who conducted the classes and would help supervise the birth.
We attended the class every week and she routinely took blood tests – when I was low on iron, she directed me to eat liver and raisins, and I began taking FemIron. I made it to the last critical class before going into labor.
We had everything arranged – our closest friends, Rick and Linda, agreed to come and help direct things and support us. We brought in a hospital bed and set up speakers to play our favorite music. IIRC, it was “Jonathan Seagull.”
Rick and Linda Mims
My midwife kept calling me to say, “Listen, I’ve got someone who is trying to get their Midwife license and they need to witness a live birth. Can they come for the birth?” Hospitals prevented anyone but the husband from being present and they do NOT like midwives! One of them was a Jesuit priest! We had ten people coming, in addition to the midwife and the RN.
The Wednesday following the last critical class, I woke up early in the morning to find my water had broken. We immediately called the RN and midwife, as well as the Jesuit priest, who had requested a call. As the day went on, my labor would start and stop, start and stop. We tried everything – herbal teas, an enema, a warm bath, jogging, running up and down the stairs. At one point, she even told us “You know, an orgasm wouldn’t hurt! No penetration, tho!” and sent us upstairs.
Nope – that didn’t work either. About 7 pm, they were listening to her heartbeat through a contraction and heard it dip, which indicated the cord was around her neck – my labor would probably never progress. During a contraction, pressure was exerted on the umbilical cord. This caused her body to secrete adrenalin, which then signalled MY body to stop the contractions. She left it up to us on the decision to go to the hospital or not.
We conferred and decided it was not worth endangering our baby’s life, but we did NOT want to go to WR. The hospital at Andrews Air Force Base was the only military hospital in the area that had a Midwifery Program, and my midwife happened to know the female Colonel Director……and she just so happened to be on duty that night.
She called and arranged it for us and off we went to Andrews. At that time, they had begun using internal monitors – they literally screw it into the babie’s scalp!!!! Since my water had already broken, they wanted to do that and we said absolutely NOT!!!! They also wanted to shave me – nope, not happening! The word went out all through the hospital that this crazy couple had tried to have their baby at home. Horrors!!! “It’s not done!”
Internal Monitor
They fitted me with an external monitor across my belly but Heather kept moving so they had a hard time tracking her heartbeat. They tried again to talk me into an internal monitor so the attendant didn’t have to stay at my bedside every minute. My reply? “Tough shit – just do your damned job!!!”
They hit me up with a very high dose of pitocin, a synthetic oxytocin, which triggers the contractions. Due to that high dose, when Heather started coming, it was FAST. They wanted to cut me so I didn’t rip or tear – I said no but my hubby freaked and I was too tired to fight it. He said they used what looked like a tree lopper! That was NOT a pleasant sound, let me tell you! It was a very loud “POP!” I had no pain killers whatsoever throughout and did not even feel it when they cut me. The cord was, indeed, wrapped around her neck so as soon as her head came through, they cut the cord.
Heather was finally born around 1:30 in the morning and, altho we both ran a low fever for a time, all was well. She was tiny – 5 lbs 6 oz – but otherwise healthy. She was 5 lbs 1 oz when we took her home and was the ONLY baby in the nursery who was not jaundiced (caused by bilirubens).
I was in the hospital until Friday; when I left, I wore my regular jeans – that extra 30 lbs? Gone! The following Sunday, we took her with us to the Lamaze class and everyone oohed and aahed. Five days old:
I bathed her myself for the most part until one day my hubby wanted to do it. The idiot took a soaked washcloth and plopped in on the top of her head – of course, the water poured down her face and scared her to death! I refrained from hitting him, miraculously! I began a campaign to rid her of that fear by bringing her into the bath tub with me. Peaceful and unfraid, enjoying the sensation of floating! I succeeded – she was never scared of water again!!!
I was unable to find a picture by itself of the current church/school but you can see it in the opening picture in this video. Overhead view of the current church, with the school I attended on the right; I was baptized in this church in 1953 and was confirmed in April 1967. The entire wing on the left and the parking lot was added after I left the area.
In the year 1865, a group of members of the Evangelical Lutheran St. Paul congregation at Ixonia, WI gathered together with the desire to raise their cildren near a church and school. This caused them to consider emigration. Pastor Hoeckendorf, the minister of this congregation, at that time had relatives who lived near West Point, NE. So they got the idea to send scouts into this area. They wanted some trustworthy people to check everything out right there on location.
The info in this post was taken from this booklet.
They entrusted this important matter to “Father” Braasch, “Father” Wagner, and John Gensmer. These men departed for NE and, since the area surrounding West Point was already more or less settled and the whole group couldn’t possibly also settle there, they ventured further north over the wild plains of Nebraska until they came to the area which is now Norfolk.
They found that the land was fertile, the water drinkable, and wood was also found on the North Fork and the Elkhorn rivers. Very pleased with their finding, they joyfully returned to Ixonia and delivered the good news.
Pic from internet
On May 23, 1866, it was time for the old pioneers to leave their homes and strike out toward their new destination. It was a difficult time since many heartrending goodbyes were required – parents to their children, children to their parents, brothers and sisters parted, relatives and friends shook hands for the last time. The long journey was made in “prairie schooners” pulled by horses and oxen. In 3 caravans, 53 wagons moved through the uncultivated terrain, accompanied by cattle and sheep. Along the way, they encountered great difficulties, such as crossing rivers without bridges and maneuvering through swamps. Some days they had to stop to wash clothes and bake bread and on Sundays, they observed regular church services, which were led by Father Braasch, the leader of the whole train.
Around the 12th of July 1866, the members of the new German Settlement arrived in close proximity to the present-day Norfolk. After the land was measured and raffled off, everybody moved onto their allotted properties from 17-20 July.
Note: You may need to enlarge the pic to see – on the left just over half-way down, you will see the name “William Duhring.” (My brother inherited the farm and now his children have inherited it from him – Chris gets the land in order to keep it in the Deering name, ‘Nette gets the house.) That was my birth grandfather, Arnold Deering’s Father (Grandpa changed the spelling of his last name in order to appear less German, probably due to WWII, I expect). If you look up further towards the center, close to the river, you will see the name “Martin Raasch,” my adopted great-great-grandfather.
I’m not sure when this picture was taken – clearly not in 2007 – but these were the 4 remaining founders still alive at that time. August Raasch, my adopted great-grandfather, was the first postmaster in Norfolk. He was wounded at Gettysburg and carried shrapnel in his back until he died; in later years, he was basically an invalid but with 12 children (mostly boys), he had plenty of help on the farm.
Of course, it took time to build homes and barns so, in the meantime, they either built one-room log cabins or sod houses.
The first services of this new settlement took place in a shed on the North Fork of the Elkhorn River. Shrubs and branches covered the roof to provide shade and the dirt floor was covered with hay. For the rest of that first summer, they held church services in this shed. I don’t know when the first real church, a log building 24 X 30, was built – there was no altar or chancel and the benches consisted of boards which were laid on wooden blocks. Occasionally the boards would fall over when the people rose during the service. This church was used until the year 1878; in 1876, the congregation had bought 12 acres from Pastor Hoekendorf for $120.
The first parsonage was built in 1878 and at the April meeting that year, the congregation decided to build a new church. The new one would be 36 X 50 and cost approximately $1,405. The number of school children increased significantly so the congregation found it necessary to hire a regular teacher and build a school house. Since they already had a teacher, a house for him was also required, which was constructed in 1884.
Although the church building was finished, the interior was bare – no chancel, altar, benches or organ. Father Braasch made the initial contribution when he paid for an altar and chancel for the church, providing an example for the wealthy people among the members. The congregation bought the benches and, in 1884, they acquired a pipe organ (the organ still remains in the current church, as you will see in the interior picture). Since the church did not have enough seating for the attendants and the school also needed another classroom, the congregation voted unamimously to build a new church. During a meeting on January 21, 1907, the decision was made to build a brick building.
Architect Stitt created the plans and specifications for the beautiful building, which was designed in the gothic style of the 13th century. The cost of the building and interior came to about $24K. The cornerstone was laid in August of 1907 and the dedication took place on May 3, 1908. The old church was remodeled to serve for school functions and weekly catechism.
In July 1916, it had been 50 years since the founding fathers of our congregation arrived on these grassy plains. Since the congregation did not want to let this day pass without an expression of gratitude to God, they decided to celebrate their 50th anniversary on July 16, 1916. For this event, they had the interior of the church painted – the finished work is a credit to the master, Mr. Art Reiman of Milwaukee, and is a perfect work of art.
At the end of the 1st row is my birth grandmother, Marie Deering (she loved Hitler, btw); in the 2nd row, you will see my grandfather, Arnold, as well as Ernest Raasch, my adopted grandfather.
Esther Raasch was my adopted grandmother – Ernest died around the time I was born. He was a Nebraska State Senator. My birth mother lived with them for a period of time while she was in HS – she and my adopted Mom were close friends.
My father, a good and loving man, passed away 8 years ago. It was a miserable week in early March, so services, even limited ones for the immediate family, couldn’t be held. Instead his cremation urn was installed in the mausoleum space without fanfare, with the expectation of a small service in a month or two as weather permitted. Those services never happened. Instead my mother, a woman I love dearly, and I had an obnoxious fight. We hadn’t spoken to one another again until last summer at my future daughter-in-law’s wedding shower.
In those 8 years, a lot had happened but we quickly caught up with each other’s lives. Our apologies were as quick as they were brief, without a glance backward as to why they were necessary in the first place. Forgive, forget, move on.
My mother was one of 15 children and growing up in that environment instilled in her a need to save everything–someone might be able to use it! was her motto. Her tiny cape cod home was bursting at the seams with things she was holding onto–some things still new in their boxes. When she began to use a walker, all those extra things in her rooms were becoming trip hazards and she asked my help in sorting out and clearing out the mess.
The mess comprises 3 floors! The basement, my father’s workshop, is off limits to me. My mother insists that all the tools (woodworking tools) belong to my younger brother–a man who has never shown any interest in wood working at all. (Unlike me, who with the help of my father, built a dry sink 40 years ago and i still have it!) But I digress. Mom cannot travel up or down stairs anymore, so she doesn’t know that the tools have rusted and because my brother never used them in 8 years are practically worthless at this point. Sigh
We spent the weekend, opening boxes and plastic bins filled with all sorts of bizarre gadgets and “As Seen on TV” items…LOL. Laughing at the absurdity of each item, we determined who might best make use of it and made piles–some for grandchildren, some for her sisters.
After I helped her clean out drawers and cabinets in the spare room, I labeled the piles and called everyone on her list of recipients–come claim your items within a week or they would be in the trash!
Since we were making some real progress, we treated ourselves to a break. We sat at the table to rest and regroup when my mom pulled a box out from under the table where she sat. “Here,” she said, “I want you to have this.” I opened the box to find my father’s Bible, the one he carried with him to school when he was young, the one he had his whole life. I swallowed hard and asked if she didn’t want to keep it…but she said she knew how much it meant to me.
The tears streamed down my face as mom and I talked about my dad’s last days. What she faced alone with him, beside him to the end. I don’t know how she endured. She told me she couldn’t go through his wallet for 2 years after he passed, but now she felt she could start to pass his things along and she especially wanted me to have this.
It’s old and weathered but holding it made me feel so close to my father again. I promised my mother my husband and I will visit again next month to help sort out and clean another room and she’s happy about that. She reminded me she has 2 more rooms on the main floor–then we have to clean the upstairs and the attic! There’s undoubtedly more of my father’s things to be found and dispersed, but my father’s Bible will remain with me until I pass it to my son.
Sew Colorful 