Snow Shovels

Long time since I wrote in here.

Lots going on, too! The biggest thing is that I will be a grandma anyday. I'm trying to get ready; daughter is young, so young. But, it is what it is. Everyone that I know who is a grandma tells me that it will be the most wonderful thing, even if the circumstances are tough. It still is a miracle. I'm counting on that!

Today I cleaned out the garage a bit, so I could park my car, and came across the snow shovels purchased last winter. And, that's when I really felt blue.

Last winter, with snow up to our booties, dad and I were feeling very stir crazy. Both of our cars were buried in snow. And, we were determined to get OUT of the snow and do something.

Dad's health wasn't great. He complained about just not having the energy he was hoping for. But, at almost 80 years of age, well, that might be expected. Dad watched me shovel. And, he had to get involved.

"Rose, let me show you a better way, " he said as he took the one snow shovel we had from my hand.

"Well, THIS is the problem! Wrong kind of shovel. We need a different kind." he said.

I was annoyed. I thought about how I needed to get OUT of this house! He was driving me nuts! This old guy! Errrr.....

So, I went and bought some new shovels. And, when I got back, dad, bundled in probably the warmest coat made, and the best gloves in the world, too, 'dug' in and got busy.

The sun was so bright that day. We had a system, and, piece by piece, shoveled that damn driveway. Dad and I talked about how the college-aged guys that lived next door, should be the ones out, shoveling. But, no..... we were on our own....

We talked about winters 'up north'. We talked about just dumb stuff. But, I do remember how proud I was, shoveling snow with my almost 80 year old dad.

Dad's shoveling was deliberate, meticulous. We both got out of the driveway, and dad treated me to lunch at Perkins, another thing we did together, on a regular basis.

So, today, moving and rearranging things in the garage, I came across those new fangled shovels. And, my heart hurt.

God, I miss him. Is this normal, to miss someone, this much, 6 months after they've died?

That was another thing we talked so much about over the years: what is 'normal' grief? Dad was a veteran griever. Buried two children, two! I cannot even imagine! Buried a wife, both parents, a son-in-law....

I valued his opinion on grief. He assured me that my grief, my unique experience, was perfectly ok. "Weep when you need to weep." he would always say, usually when I was trying not to weep. Dad gave me permission to feel whatever it was I was trying NOT to feel.

So, today, moving those damn shovels, I got tearful. Shovels. Tears. Dammit.

It doesn't help that my wedding anniversry was this weekend, too. That stinks. But, it is, what it is. That's life.

Or, as dad would say, "Well, that's the way the grapefruit squirts."

So, dad, these tears are a'flowin, just like you said they should.

Help is on the way; but you have to ask.

68 degrees and the sun is shining. We are all settling into our respective schedules. Me at practicum and school and cleaning; my daughter preparing for her baby due next month and her searching with her boyfriend for a job; my son working at a restaurant and beginning his final year of art school. Ok. So, that's where we are.

Now the fun part; we all have to keep our heads above water. I think we can do it, all of us, but, only with the support of one another. None of us can do it alone. None of us.

Without violating numerous code ethics, I will share this thought about my first week of practicum, working with people with a mental illness diagnosis:

We Can't Do It Alone

None of us can. But, we all continue to screw up and try, and with special emphasis on 'me' in the 'we'. Case in point...

The other day, while cleaning in 100 plus heat, (don't feel sorry for me, my own dumb choice), both my beloved Dyson stopped sucking and just kind of sat there. While trying to diagnose the problem, out plopped one of the lenses on my glasses. And, anyone with glasses knows that the microscopic screws holding glasses together are easily lost... So, here I am, on someone's bathroom floor, searching, with one eye, for a screw the size of a piece of lint, which would, in my warped mind, be the ticket to fixing this problem...

Uh, no. First of all, I am blind as a bat. I am wandering around looking for something to mend my glasses. I befriended the homeowner who was still at home. He was gracious enough to look for one of those glasses fix it kits in his junk drawer that, well, looks like everyone's junk drawer. But, he did find some other things he'd been missing... So, there's that.

So, I hobbled through the rest of the house, and drove the very best I could to Walgreens to find something to repair these glasses... And, I stil had a whole other house to clean (I had 3 that day and this was the final house).

Why did I think I could pull this off? One eye? No vacuum? But, by god, I was going to try and pull this off.... push, push, push...

While cursing in the front seat of my car, trying to fit the tiny little screw into my glasses, I realized this: I can't do this alone.

I raised the white flag and called the last homeowner. I explained my plight. She said, 'Rose, forget it, just reschedule'. Well, I couldn't as my schedule sucks eggs for the next, oh, semester. But, it was so kind of her to offer me an out.

Eventually, I managed to jam a screw into the frames and hobble to her house. 3 houses down, and one one-eyed Rose sweaty and pooped. But, here's the thing: why did I push myself? Why didn't I take the offer of rescheduling and move forward? I don't know. I push myself, over and over and over again. And, I try and do 'it' alone, whatever 'it' is.

The folks I have seen so far at practicum struggle in one way with this as well; trying to live this life, alone, doesn't work. It just doesn't. Therefore, making a phone call to schedule that first appointment with a therapist, or, with the primary care doc, or, the plumber, or the vacuum repair person, or whomever, is the way to go.

We are surrounded by resources. I love hearing stories of people who realize "Oh! I know someone who can do such and such to help your thing a ma jig!" That's the way it works, not cursing in a car trying to piece together a pair of glasses with the clock ticking.

Boy, I miss my dad. This is a conversation I would have with him, over dinner or sipping our respective diet cokes, mine with caffeine, his without. So, ask for help. Help is everywhere.

A Mighty Big Fish

Been awhile since I was here.

Recently I cleaned up a home and was left scratching my head. The people living in the house had moved on, leaving behind from what I was left to clean, a messy,complicated life. They literally walked away, drawers full of stuff, papers, photos, cards, pots and pans, food. And, then, they were gone.

I would have left and not cleaned had I not needed the money. Our financial situation is very tight. But, it is not hopeless. What made me sad was picking up the vibe from this absent family that they were... hopeless, maybe? I even prayed. Sometimes I do that when I come to someone's house and pick up a vibe. Maybe that is corny, I dunno, but, it is what I do.

I feel like life is just really really hard right now. I feel as though people are living on the edge more so than ever. I wish them well, these people. And, I cleaned the HELL outta that house and think it will now be rent-able. I really do. I want them to be able to rent this house and make whatever payments they need to make.

Returned from the Land of 10,000 Lakes where we scattered dad's ashes. That was hard, but, also, very good. I felt as though we were following dad's wishes and that he was proud that we were. He always fretted that we would not scatter his ashes, that we'd not have him cremated, etc. etc. But, we did just that.

I expected the trip to my grandparents' home to be the highlight of the trip. Have you ever had a place which, in your mind, is your 'heaven on earth'? Well, their place, on Lobster Lake, is/was my heaven. It had smells and sights and sounds that I have recalled in memory over the years. Its presence in memory has lulled me to sleep, calmed my nerves, helped me focus during a chemo treatment. It's that kind of place.

Well, no more. Despite heroic efforts by family members to clean and cut down dead brush and haul trash, it was nothing like I had remembered it to be. Even the smell of the place was gone. We sat in our circle of lawn chairs, favorite uncles and beloved cousins, talking like we always would. But, the absence of dad, my cousin, Fred, my brother, Sam, my sister, Ann, and of course, my grandparents, made that circle seem hollow.

We tried. We laughed and repeated various stories. But, it was just, well, flat. They were gone.

I was way bummed.

And so, that night, we all went back to one of my cousin's homes, where we stayed. They live on a lake, and they have a dock. I was feeling low, especially after bidding farewell to dad back at grandpa and grandma's... but I took a fishing pole, and tossed out my line. I hadn't fished in over 20 years.

My cousins played music. I heard laughter. I helped little people bait hooks. I listened to loons. I swatted mosquitos. I smelled lake water. Different lake, but, same old feeling.

And, then, down went my line, zig zagging deep in the water. I was certain I had caught a turtle or, caught a big wad of sea weed. But, no, by god, it was a fish. And, it was a very pissed off fish. And, it was not a little fish. It was a.... bass.

Whoa, nelly! Cousins came running. "Get a net!" said one. I found myself squealing with excitement! I caught a FISH. It was quite respectable.

So, all thoughts of Lobster Lake, bare rooms, bare walls, absent voices, dead trees.... GONE. Instead, it was me, my fishing line, a fish, and a whole bunch of people behind me, cheering me on.

I smelled those smells again and felt that love returning. I felt hope. I really, truly did.

I heard stories of my greatgrandpa, Alfred, who apparently was a wealthy man, when being a weathly man was unheard of (the depression). I didn't know that. I wanted to hear how. He didn't inherit wealth: he EARNED his wealth. Hard, steady work. Living within his means. Paying people back. Not getting overextended. Somehow hearing these stories of Greatgrandpa Helge (short for 'Helgeson') gave ME hope. The formula is simple, but deceptively so: pay for things, live within your means. Save.

I love that. I thought of him while I hauled rotting food to the curb at the house I cleaned recently. What would he think? I thought of him when I threw away unopened bills.... would this family be able to run far enough away from this truth? I don't think so. Been there, done that.

Anyway, the reunion with family was awesome. I not only love my cousins, I like them, too. I would be friends with any of them. And, I already miss them. I think dad looks down and is proud. We pulled it off. We did it. And, sounds like, we'll do it again, next year.

I sit here at dad's desk and remind myself that he isn't ever very far away, and is sitting in a circle with Freddy, his parents, and that smart old guy, Great Grandpa Helge.

Matisse and Me

I spent the afternoon with my sister, Trina. She offered to help me learn how to drive stick. My dad's car is a stick and considering I need an economical car as I commute beginning in the fall to my practicum, it makes sense to keep the car since my car is being held together with duct tape (literally).

Only killed the car a few times. One abusive looking black truck got up on my ass when I stalled out and of course honked and honked. "Go around!" Jeesh. He eventually did. Not sure if the driver was a 'he' but, it sure felt like it.

Anyway, got that done. Then, off to Goodwill. Trina is the only person on the planet that enjoys junkin like I do. Given the choice between an afternoon at a mall or an afternoon at a big ass Goodwill store, well, hands down, we'd go with the Goodwill. Paradise is looking at weird stuff, holding things up to one another and asking, "What the hell is THIS?" And, just taking our time, looking at doo dads.

Anyway, picture frames: no need to ever buy two things in this world for sure: picture frames and wicker baskets. I think they propagate in the back room at Goodwill. There is always a healthy stock of each. We found a few nifty frames and skipped the baskets. Our purchases included a huge matted and framed Henri Mattisse, you know, the one with the fish, anyway, that now hangs proudly in my livingroom.

Life has been hard for me lately. I won't get into the reasons why. Loss, change, concern are all intertwined and curling around me. The combo keeps me up at nights. So, a casual afternoon at Goodwill was just what the doctor ordered.

Back home, we ended up looking through stacks of framed pictures stored in the garage. Tears. Pictures of dad, or, things that reminded of us dad, are everywhere. I believe that a person successfully grieves when they can cry with someone who doesn't try to wipe the tears away.

And so, eventually, I was alone in the house. No kids. Just my $5.00 CD player and the soundtrack to 'Garden State'. Incense. A big ass Route 44 Diet Coke. I felt brave dusting off framed photos of my late husband, Gordon, too. He is smiling at me from his frame, as we speak. And, I can handle it.

My birthday is inching closer towards me. So many changes this year! Last year was, by all accounts one of the hardest of my entire life. But, it is amazing what things look like, with the proper frame

Happy Papa's Day

I have been steering clear of writing lately. I know why, too; there is just too much rattling around in this little noggin of mine. And, none of it is all that ‘rosy’, either. I suspect if I was an art student, I would be drawing/painting/carving something dark and foreboding. But, I’m a middle aged mom, going to school, awaiting the arrival of her first grandchild, running a cleaning business and, oh, yeah, that’s right, grieving the loss of her beloved dad.

Oh, that’s right, there’s that. The empty chair. The table for one and not two. The sparse amount of mail each day. Oh, yeah, that thing called, ‘grief’.

I am amazed. How dumb of me not to recognize all of these phases or stages, whatever theory you connect to, that I am experiencing. I have written countless papers about this; I have read dozens of articles about this, I have listened to lectures about this, and you would think that I would be ‘good’ at this by now. Well, if good is feeling like crap, then, I am golden. This sucks.

But we all go through it, some sooner rather than later. I suspect that dad is absolutely fine now, riding a bike or fishing with Sam or laughing with Ann or telling tales with grandpa and grandma and mom. I like to think about that. He’s just fine, perfect, now.

No more burned popcorn! No more lines at Walgreens! No more medication! No more support hose! No more hearing aids! Pork chops every night! ‘Law and Order’ on every channel! But more than anything, love, everywhere, all around him and living with Him. That is pretty awesome.

If you were to see your grandsons, you’d see them all wearing parts of you, mimicking things you do, just to be ‘like’ you. Sam wearing your Korea jacket, with all of the patches. Josh riding your bike. Ben reading his bible at the table, just like you. Alex wearing your marine corps hat; Jack wearing your slippers. Georgia making popcorn everynight, just like you. Those grandkids LOVED you.

So, dad, I’ll man the fort here. We are fine. But, we miss you so. Thank you for being the kind of dad/granddad that people really miss. Thanks for that. Thanks for being an amazing grandpa, greatgrandpa and papa. Love you lots,

Rose

DD214

Forms. While I was lying awake last night, trying to go to sleep, I was thinking about the form I received in the mail earlier that day. It was the copy of my father’s separation papers from the Marines. Amazing how sloppy the typing was, but, it was done on an old typewriter, with the cloth ribbon that advances a bit at a time. There on this form, with details about dad, enlisting at the tender age of 20; seeing combat in Korea; weighing 220 lbs. when he got off the bus in Canton, SD to be met by his parents, there, on this form were four medals that dad received, none of which we ever knew a thing about.

On that June day in 1954, dad stood taller, six feet. That made me laugh a little, as dad had shrunk to be about oh, five foot eight or nine. I recalled dad telling me about his homecoming that June day, when he got off the bus and was met by grandpa and grandma. He was stinking drunk, as were all of the other Marines on the bus. His brothers, David and Rolfe, were waiting at home and were going to play music for him. Little grandma was not pleased with his condition and smell (the same clothes for two days, on a bus). But, as is common in our family, not a word was said. Just pursed lips.

Dad was in Korea for one year and seventeen days. I think that if dad were standing here with me now, he would refute that. “Oh, no, it was more like four years.” I imagine him saying. But, the devil is in the details. This form says one year, seventeen days. It must be right. It’s a form.

Dad was given $316.40. And, as I have discovered over the last two weeks since he died, I suspect he didn’t have fourteen cents by the second or third day home. Again, the facts, man.

Dad had been offered $10,000 in life insurance. He declined. Nuf said.

According to the form, Dad replied that he was interested in Science as a major course of study. Dad’s first dream was to be a doctor. But, dad was not a disciplined student. When mom and dad got married the following year, mom knew just what to do to help dad figure out what the heck he should do with his life: she marched him down to an employment agency and had him take an aptitude test. The winner? Social Work, not Medicine. Again, the devil is in the details of that form, that, and forty years in the mental health field.

I see dad standing there, in front of ‘Officer J.C. HUDOCK’ who was the discussing officer, spelling out his last name as the Officer annoyingly typed it out:

“E…. I….E….S…L…A…N…D…”

But back on those four decorations, medals, citations and campaign ribbons. Dad never mentioned one of them. In fact, up until just the last few years, dad never spoke of his combat experiences to any of his surviving daughters. From talking with my son, it seems that he did not censor himself with his grandsons. I don’t know if having a penis was equal to being able to hearing the truth of war, or, dad just didn’t want to upset his girls. Hard telling.

Korean Service Medal with 1 star. United Nation Medal. National Defense Medal. Good Conduct Medal. Those were his medals. I wish I knew more about them. So, I’ll do a little research. Given dad’s love of patches and hats, I am surprised he did not celebrate these commendations with a patch on a jacket or ball cap.

These forms are all I have right now of dear old dad, who spent the last few years watching ‘Law and Order’ and finishing crossword puzzles and reciting the rosary every morning and drinking caffeine free diet coke and driving too slow in his Ford Focus with the two U.S. flags flying on each side….

It has been two weeks, and five days since I spoke to dad. I guess the devil is in the details, there, too. Boy, I miss you, dad!

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is March 25th, which would have been my mother, Helen's 80th birthday. We lost mom 12 years ago.

All day long, I felt a bit melancholy, and my mind would wander and settle on memories of mom. I didn't really figure it all out, why this was happening, until I arrived home and dad announced that he had remembered it was mom's birthday. He promptly got in his car and drove to Topeka to her grave and paid his respects. Bless his heart.

Today while I was cleaning other people's homes, I got to thinking about how mom and I cleaned houses when she was in college. And then, I thought about how mom's mom, Ingeleave Gilmore also cleaned other people's homes. And, then, how her mom did the same thing.

I guess that may not be something to be proud of; we all want to reveal in our lineage that we were born of kings and queens and dukes and duchesses. But, not me. And, that is o.k.

Mom taught me alot, that is for sure. And, mom was a handful. Man, she was either a really fabulous mom or a dreadful, neglectful mom. When things were good, they were really, really good, like the time she announced to me after overhearing me talk on the phone with my girlfriend, Carol who was going on the senior trip to New York and Washington that, I should call Carol back and let her know that I was going to New York, too. We had no money. But, she put her most valuable possession, a large carat diamond, up as collaterol and borrowed the money to send me to NYC and Washington. She even took me to Macy's and bought me some clothes, too. That was the mom I like to remember.

I won't share the bad stuff. That seems disrespectful to me to share that in this kind of forum. All I will say is that when it was bad, it was really, really bad.

But, back on the cleaning thing. I come from a long line of women who cleaned other's dirty homes. But, what I also come from is a long line of strong, hardworking, independent women, who were willing to do whatever it took to help feed their families. I think I like the sound of that better.

In a couple of months, I am travelling with one of my sisters to meet, face-to-face, my half brother. I've known about my brother since I was 10 years old, when this same sister let it slip that mom had given up a baby for adoption before she and dad married.

Such a scandal.

Mom would not talk much about this baby. As we got older, mom would tell us more of the story, a little at a time. But, it was obvious from her face that she wondered about him, longed a bit for him and felt very sad about him. We knew him as Steven.

She kept him for three weeks.

She realized she couldn't support him, and signed the papers.

And then, she kind of spiraled into a few years of being really, really lost, bouncing around the country, into dead end jobs, trying to forget.

A few years before she died, I was home visiting mom and dad and she asked me if I would help her find Steven. She wanted to know what became of him. Fortunately, it was not hard to find him, and he was looking for mom at the same time. Less than a month after asking me to find him, mom and her now grown up first born, talked on the phone.

She never got to meet him, face to face, cold feet on mom's part. Just a few months before she died, he was going to travel to KS from WI where he lives, to meet her. He said he wanted to thank her for providing him with a wonderful family. He wanted to thank her. I love that.

Through the power of Facebook, I have been able to keep in touch with my oldest sibling. When I look at him, I see my mom. There she is! He looks more like her than any of the rest of us!

I can't wait to kiss and hug him. I want to do it for my mom, Helen. Happy Birthday, mom. I miss you and love you.