Mother Christmas

Christmas Time 2013
For The Record
Part III

I suppose nostalgia is a normal part of Christmas time.  I do have many nice memories of big family festivities from childhood.
Of course our holiday celebrations have changed since then.   I realize that there is a direct correlation between the evolution of our family and the size, location and tone of our gatherings.  But actually the changes are definitely affected by Mother.
For instance, when I was child, Christmas eve and Christmas day were always spent at my grandparents houses, even though, it meant an hour car ride back and forth and then back again.
I have images of lots of cousins, aunts, uncles, food, music and laughter.
That changed when my grandparents died, particularly after my each of my grandmothers passed.
It seems that’s when the family separated into their own units.  And there was a new Mother’s house to go to for Christmas.
So the Christmas memories of my young adult years are filled with visions of my Mom and Dad’s house. The aroma of bubbling gravy on the stove and lasagna in the oven, the sight of my excited kid sisters and brothers and the sound of my father’s rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” are still vivid senses etched in my mind.
When my dad died, my mom moved into one of those adult communities.  By then our family had started to grow, with new husbands and wives and children of our own.  But we would still gather at Mom’s for Christmas.
As Mom got older, it became necessary for her to move into a smaller place. By then the dynamics of our family changed once again with moves out of the areas and multiple divorces. But even though her place wasn’t big enough for us to gather there, Christmas would be wherever Mom was.  By then the dynamics of our family changed again with moves out of the area and multiple divorces.
Since my mom passed away four years ago, as it happened with the passing of my grandparents my siblings I began to have Christmas with our own families.
The past couple of years, my kids and their families would come to our house at some time between Christmas and New Years.  Then last year a new tradition was established.  My daughter had Christmas at her house.  So now Mother has been passed on to her and that’s where we had Christmas again this year.  She and Derek did a splendid job.   Ham and all the trimmings for dinner and homemade cookies for desert. There were bags full of gifts and excited children.  We were all together, Ross and I, Derek, Jen, Bella, Ryan and Jackson, Anne, Domani, Ken and Jimmy.  New memories being made.

Christmas Eve
Even though the gathering gets smaller each year, one thing that has remained constant for the past several years is spending Christmas Eve with my sister Elaine and my brother-in-law Al. This year it was just the four of us.   There was delicious food, great conversation, laughter and love.

Tis Better To Give Than to Receive… Or is it?

Christmas Time 2013
For Record
Part II
Over the years, gift exchange between Ross and I has transitioned and developed into a finely tuned tried and true tradition.
This year, about a month before the twenty-fifth, Jen told me about this website called “Ebates”.
Basically, the premise is that if you purchase an item from one of their many participating online shops, you receive a cash rebate.
So for instance, I ordered a few things from JC Penny and received a 6% rebate.  You can receive the rebate in a check, which is sent to you quarterly.  Or, what I chose to do is have it deposited into my Paypal account.
I was skeptical but it works.  And as far as I can tell there are no strings attached.
Anyway back to tradition.
When my packages arrived from Penny’s, Ross seemed a little upset.
He watched me open the boxes.  As I pulled out pajamas, a couple of sweaters, a few pairs of warm wooly socks and three pair of jeans, he seemed to be disappointed.
When I asked what was wrong, he said, “But we go shopping together. We do it every year.  It’s our Christmas tradition.”
“Oh.”
Hmm, I thought back over the years and recalled that is what we would do.  Ross likes to shop.  He likes to shop with me.  So sometime in December, we would pick a day and the two of us would go on a spree.    I just didn’t realize it had become a holiday “tradition.”
He explained that now his dilemma was that he didn’t know what to get for me.


That’s when I sent him this list:

The Swift by Tom Bihn - The knitting bag designed by knitters for knitters



A GoPro Camera






A set of Caruso Steam Rollers

Needless to say I got everything on my list along with a soft cuddly robe and another pair of comfy pi’s.

Oh yes, and there was this little blue box under the tree.  There should always be a little surprise. 

Tiffany & Company Paloma Picasso Sterling Silver XO  Love and Kisses Pin

And we still went on our shopping spree.  

The saying that it is better to give than to receive is true, most of the time.

I was getting my hair done a few days ago, before Christmas.  As I waited my turn, I couldn’t help but overhear a young twenty-something guy boast about the gifts he was going to give his girl.  

The conversation went something like this:

Hairdresser:  “So did you finish shopping for your girlfriend?”

Guy:  “Oh yeah.  I got her a bunch of stuff.  You know little things, but a lot of stuff.”

Hairdresser:  “Oh, what did you get?”

Guy:  “Well, lets see…Uh, oh yeah, WaWa was having a sale on K-cups.  So I got her a box of those. Punkin Spice.  They were fifty percent off.  Uh…a back pack for when she goes to the gym to put her gym clothes in. It was on sale in Walmart.   The gym was having a sale on protein bars, so I got her a box of those.  I figure we can share those.  Oh yeah and a wool hat.”   I got some stuff for the apartment.

Hairdresser: “Oh, are you living together?”

Guy:  “Yeah she moved into  my place in September.  I think it may have been a little too soon.  We had only been dating for a few months.  And well, you know…I had to make some space for her, clean out a couple of drawers, rearrange some stuff.  Yeah, it may have been a little too soon. "

As I listened to this conversation, I had an image of this poor girl and the pure look of disappointment on her face as she opened up her box of K-cups and protein bars.  

I have a feeling that there will not be a little blue box under the tree for her. 

PS. For the record:

Ross kind of took to the GoPro.  It’s a toy, a gadget.  

I took the hint when he said he would like to try the new Kindle Paper White.

Since he is trying to get fit, I also got him the FitBit.

Is Christmas Twenty-Thirteen Already Just A Memory?

Christmas Time 2013

For The Record
Part I

Along with many other people, it is also a tough time of the year for me.  Actually, for the past few years I have not felt like doing anything Christmassy.
When I think back to the Christmas after Joe died, which was just 20 days after he passed, I cannot imagine how I managed to get through it that year.  I am sure I was very much in a zombie like state of shock.
Today, I re-read the 2011 and 2012 blogs that I wrote around this same time of the year.
As I was reading those posts, I realized how much I miss writing and want to get back into doing it more frequently.
When I began writing this post, I was going to mention how much I did not feel like putting up a tree or doing any kind of decorating this year.  When I referred back to those past two christmas-time posts, I found that I said the exact same thing each one of those years.
Even though Joe’s passing was more recent in 2011 and 2012,  I was still able to motivate myself to decorate for the holidays.  As I would start to go through the ornaments, I would find myself getting nostalgic and sentimental recalling what was special to me about each one.
This year I was much more adamant about not doing any decorating.  No one was planning on visiting.  I wasn’t in the mood.  I was not going to do it!
Then one day I got a phone call from Bella.  She wanted to know if we could get together during her holiday break for a special sleep over.  So, for that reason, I dug out the decorations and I put up the tree.
But it really was different this year.  I was sadder.   Perhaps I have finally begun to feel again.
As I unboxed and unwrapped each of the ornaments, they seemed to no longer hold the same connections for me.
I did most of my shopping online.  Usually I would do it first thing in the morning, with a mug of tea and a cozy warm laptop.   I find if you get there early, you usually beat the crowds. :)
I also find it is less depressing if you do not have to encounter the group of tired, grouchy and stressed out, shoppers who trudge through the malls.
For the third year in a row I did not send out Christmas cards.  I guess I am slowly being dropped from other people’s lists because we are also receiving less and less cards.
This year, just like in 2011, the cards we did receive were interspersed with sympathy cards expressing condolences for the loss of my brother.

I made several knitting presents.   It’s what kept me on a somewhat even keel.  Unlike shopping online for merchandise, I prefer to do my yarn shopping in my favorite local shop, WoolBearers.  My senses are aroused as soon as I enter the shop.  First, the sight of bursts and shades of color awaken my imagination.  Next is the therapeutic and calming touch, squeeze and caress of each and every hank of fiber.
While in the shop I discovered “Hollywood” by Cascade.  It has just a hint of sparkle and it is 87% Superwash wool.
I made a few really pretty headbands and scarves with that yarn.

Well, so,  I sparsely decorated my very realistic looking, white, almost origami-like Christmas tree, arranged a festive garland on my mantle and hung a wreath on my front door.
I finished all of my shopping, knitting and wrapping with days to spare.  And I managed to do it all with only one meltdown and a much needed good cry.





Part II tomorrow.

For The Record - My Brother Adam’s Memorial Service

December 6, 2013
For the Record

Adam’s Memorial Service

This was the Friday that we held the memorial for our brother Adam.
The day, well it was gray.  The rain was misty, and drippy and steady.
The service was being held in the Chapel at the Memorial Park.

Ross and I and Dolores were among the first to arrive.

The chapel was icy cold.  There were chairs set up and a small stand covered with a cloth.  I guessed that’s where the container holding Adam’s ashes would be displayed.

My brother-in-law, Mike, Marie’s husband, put together a poster filled with a collage of photos of Adam.  It was set up at the front of the room.

Ross and I brought 24 roses and we placed one on each chair.

One by one the others began to arrive.  I noticed how everyone kind of shivered and tried to wrap their coat tighter around them when they entered the icy room.

I watched from the front of the room as this family began to gather and greet one another.

The rituals of the greetings were touching.  They began with a warm smile of recognition as each person approached the other.   Next, at almost the exact same time, they would reach out and grab each other’s hands, and lean in for a kiss on the cheek.  Finally they would pull one another in close for a lingering hug.

Personally, for me, a hug is the most comforting.  A tight, warm close hug says, “I’ve got you.”

When it was time to start to service, my nephew Jacob, Marie’s son, asked everyone to take a seat.

Jake is a missionary student.  This was his first time leading a memorial service .  He talked about how important mourning is.  He explained that grief  should not be hidden, but worn publicly.  He added that a display of bereavement is a tribute to the love of the ones we have lost.
Jake showed an outstanding level of maturity and understanding as he guided us through the service.

Then we each had an opportunity to speak.

I along with my brother Ray, and my sisters Johanna and Marie each gave emotional testimonials and remembrances acknowledging the shared bond with our brother.

After the ceremony, we filed out of the of the chapel.  I suppose that it was fitting, almost cliche, that it we melded into a procession of bobbing, shared umbrellas as we made our way over to the gravesite.

At the end of a prayer, led by Jacob, we each said our good-byes and placed our rose on the grave.

Adam requested that he be buried with my parents.  His remains now rest with my mother.

We then all gathered at a local family restaurant called “Confectionately Yours" , not far from the cemetery.
Although we were a group of 32 unexpected guests, and there was an initial few minutes of panicky confusion, the staff was very accommodating and even set up their private room for us.

Due to circumstances, primarily  financial, Adam did not have all of the trappings of what we have come to expect or what we might, I suppose call a traditional funeral.  There was no viewing at a funeral home,  no flowers, no limos, no incense or church mass.

But, I believe that our remembrance of Adam was intimately more special.  Those who participated were truly his loved ones.


This is what I said when it was my turn to speak:

For My Brother Adam
We are gathered here today because we have an undeniable bond.  A resilient thread that ties us together.   There are times when that connection is stretched to it’s thinnest, but it does not break.

The fibers of my relationship with Adam were spun and intertwined together forming a  textured fabric, embroidered with strands of dark, bold and intense colors.

Over the years, anguish and anger began to place an immense amount of strain on our ties, causing them to fray so badly around the edges that I was convinced it had unraveled beyond repair.

I held on to the anger for a long time.

Then one day, I think it was about five years ago,  Johanna told me that she decided she wanted to reach out to Adam.  Frankly, I was quite surprised. I couldn’t understand it.  “Why?” I wanted to know.

"He’s a human being who is struggling.  He needs help. He’s my brother.” She said.

 I remember thinking to myself, “Wow baby sister, you are something else.”

Her expressions of compassion and acts of kindness opened up my mind and heart a little that day.

But I continued to remain separated from him.

Then, about six months ago, we learned that Adam was very ill.  Johanna had been notified that he was in a hospital, and comatose.

Without hesitation, everyone immediately came to be with our brother.

Everyone, except for me, that is.

He surprised us, by what I suppose was his shear will to live and recovered.  But his diagnosis was dire.

As Adam’s health declined, Elaine became his main caregiver and advocate.  She would frequently call me to tell me about the time she spent with him.

I know it was difficult for her, but she told me that he was like a child.  He needed help.  He was her brother.

Her acts of kindness and displays of compassion, opened my mind and heart more and more each day.

As the cloudy haze of anger, fear and stress eased, I was able to see my brother more clearly.

And then one day I called him.

And then one day I went to see him.

He was the fifth remnant  in our sometimes ill fitted, six piece, patch work quilt.
Even though he and I were separated age wise by almost a generation, we shared some of the same challenging childhood experiences.

Those experiences ultimately gave shape to our beings, who we became.

I don’t know…maybe it was birth order, circumstances, or forks in the road that may have led us in opposite directions, but our hurts and insecurities were really the same.

Each time I would visit with him,  I re-discovered that he had a great sense of humor.  It was similar to mine.  Dry, sarcastic and sometimes mocking, but funny, really funny.

He was smart. Not only street smart, because he was that.  He knew things about any number of topics and could speak intelligently about them.

In his own way, I know he loved us, we were always his family.

He expressed this best in a card he sent to me after Joe passed away.  At the time, I guess we were both at our lowest.

This is what he wrote:

“Dear Lynda,
I love you and my heart goes out to you.  Those kids are like my kids, the closest thing I have to my own kids.  I pray every night for you.  If there is anything I can do just tell me.
Love,
Adam”

I am filled with grief for Adam.  As I reflect on who he was, I regret that I did not see him differently until there wasn’t enough time to appreciate him.
   

I’m sure we all did this.

When we spoke of Adam we would talk about his unusual behaviors and his uncontrollable addictions. We would cluck our tongues, shake our heads, sigh and whisper, “What a shame.”

We would ask, “Why couldn’t he change?  Why couldn’t he be more like us?   What a shame.”

But, I think, what we may have failed to see was the potential creativity that hid behind the craziness.

Our view was obstructed by the ridged armor he wore to protect the soft gauzy layers that cushioned his hurts.

He emanated a bristly and prickly electric like energy.   I suppose that if I were able to hear that energy it might sound like a discordant tune he would play on his guitar.

Perhaps if his undeveloped talent had been recognized and discovered, his dormant rock star could have emerged.

So imagine this.  Consider the possibility that instead of the small group here today, there were red carpets, limos, frantic paparazzi and throngs of Adam’s fans filling this chapel and beyond. 

I will miss you my brother.
————————————————————————————————————————
I am stirred by the loving family members who came to be with us that day.

Aunt Edie and her grandson Dominic
Our cousins Ginny and Ray

Aunt Nancy and cousin Jimmy
Uncle Bobby and Aunt Pat
Aunt Ronnie and Uncle George
Aunt Dolores

Ross and I
Jen, Derek, and Jackson
Anne and Domani
Ken D
Jimmy

Elaine and Al

Ray and Patty
Erica
Gregg
Ashley

Johanna, Steve
Samantha

Marie and Mike
Michael
Jacob
Nathaniel

He Was Only Passing By

I wonder what today would be like if someone had whispered a secret in my ear on April 4, 1975.
“Here is your little boy.”  Hold onto him tightly.  He is precious and yours to keep for 34 years. “
Perhaps, today I would be able to feel the weight of his nearly 8 lbs when he was placed in my arms for the first time.   I might vividly sense a tickle as I recall the movement of his head from side to side on my bare chest.  I’m sure his new born smell would continue to linger and cling to me.
I would still taste the richness of the chocolate frosting on my fingers as I wiped it off of his one year old face.
Instead of a frozen moment captured in a photographic glimpse,  the memories of his milestones, his firsts, would be an instant recall, brought about, at my will.
Today, in my mind, the in betweens would not be measured in years but in moments, each one.
If someone had whispered a secret in my ear on April 4, 1975, I would have looked up when he called “Mommy, look at me.”  Not the fourth or fifth time, he called, but the very first time.
 I would have always known who he was, what he liked, how he felt, not just in the last ones of  his years, but in each and every moment of all of those 34 years.

Today, this December 5, 2013, I long for my son. I want to hear his voice. I want touch his hand, I want to especially see his shy little smile. I want to talk to him.  I want to listen to him.

I wish, I regret, I realize, that if I had known the secret I would have treasured each minute of every one of his 13, 393 days.

One of my favorite books, because it is told from the point of view of a mother who has lost her son, is “The Testament of Mary”, by Colm Toibin.

This quote describes how I feel most every day, but especially this day.

“But no one realized that it would be the realm of death he was destined for, that all the grace and beauty of his aura of specialness, like a gift from the gods to his parents and his sisters, that all of it was a grim joke, like being teased by the smell of delicious food or the possibility of plenty, when it was only something passing by destined for elsewhere. “

The Saturday After Thanksgiving Day Day - Memories Are Made to be Made

Saturday, November 30, 2013
For The Record

I can’t tell you what the weather was like today because I was too busy getting ready for our “The Saturday after Thanksgiving Day, Thanksgiving Day Gathering”.

I suppose our family is not unique.  Lots of people get pulled in many different directions as they try to fit holiday visits in with in-laws, moms and dads separated by divorce, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles cousins and friends.

Our compromise is to have the kids and grandkids over on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Since I figure that everyone is turkyed out by then, we make my famous lasagna.

We’ve been doing this for a few years now and every year Ross and I ask each other the same questions.  We never can remember how much ground beef and sausage to buy for the meat sauce. We mull over how many cans of tomatoes and paste will be enough so that we have extra.  We can never recall how much ricotta, mozzarella and parmesan we need.  Every year I say we should write it down.

But the biggest dilemma is trying to figure out what pans we should use to bake the lasagna in.

Every year, as we are hunting through our cupboards looking for suitable pans, Ross is reminded of the perfect lasagna pans he saw in the “Cooks Illustrated” magazine that he subscribes to.

 And each year he says the same thing, “I should have gotten those pans.”

So this year we did it.  It was last minute, but we ran out late on Wednesday and purchased two white porcelain ceramic, 9 x 13, with handles, perfect lasagna pans.  The brand is HIC (Harold Imports Company).

HIC is not a retail outfit.  You can purchase their products at various stores and online from other retailers.  We bought ours from Kitchen Kapers in Marlton NJ.

We give it *****.
The white porcelain is oven, microwave and dishwasher safe.  It is pretty enough to have a place on the dining table.

Three standard brand lasagna noodles fit perfectly across.  The dish handles three layers, which is also perfect.  The lasagna bakes evenly.  One of the best features are the handles.  They make it safe and easy when it is time to take the hot dish out of the oven.
And clean up is a breeze.
Now as long as we don’t store these pans in some tuck-away place, there will not be a  question of which pans we will use next time for the lasagna.

We were quite organized this year.   It seems like Ross has been making shopping lists for two weeks already.  I made the meatballs on Thursday.   We made the gravy (for non-Italians that would be the sauce) on Friday morning.   We put the lasagna together, very nicely I might add, in our new perfect lasagna pans.

Dinner time was set for 2:00.

The first “guests” to arrive were Anne and Domani.  Domani rang the door bell.  I peeked out of the sidelight window and saw his serious little face expectantly looking up at the door.  He reminded me so much of Joey in that moment.   I tapped on the window and when he saw me his whole being from tip to toe became animatedly happy and excited.

Ross was sitting on the sofa watching Domani, Anne and I put together a Toy Story puzzle when the front door opened and the next one to arrive entered.

I thought that I would be overcome with emotion, but it seemed so natural to see him come on into the house.  It was as if I were whooshed back to a time when it was that way.  I have to admit, I took a few seconds to savor the moment before I got up to greet him.

The oven buzzed telling me it was time to take the lasagna out of the oven.  It makes the biggest difference when you let it rest on the counter for 5-10 minutes before you cut into it.

The phone rang and it was Jen.   She was at the front gate and there was a sign on the gatehouse.
“Be Back in a Few Minutes.”
I thought, “How strange.”  But I guess even the 24/7 guard has to answer the call of nature once in a while.

A few seconds later the door bell rang again.  Derek came in carrying a sleeping Jax.  Jen had a dish of cookies in one hand and a pie in the other.   Bella hugged me.  Ryan slipped by and he and Domani  headed for the “toy” room.

So, even though Ross and I were super organized, with everything we could possibly do to get things ready a head of time, the chaos of getting food onto to the table inevitably ensued.

Times like this, when we are together, are blissful,  But times like this are also filled with such a mixture of emotions for me.

After dinner I stood in the kitchen doorway looking out into the living room.   I quietly watched my family.  Anne and Jen were sitting on the sofa chatting. Derek was rocking and bouncing his new son Jackson, trying to get him to sleep.  Jimmy was standing aside, looking at Domani and Ryan rambunctiously  playing and I thought about how difficult it must for him.

It’s at times like that, during the quiet time, when I stand apart from the rest, that’s when I feel the loss the most.
I thought about the time Joe came through the door carrying a sleeping Domani.  It was the day that Joe took Domani to the beach for the first time.
I am reminded of the last time Kenny and Ty were here.  It was a hard day, that day.  The boys were spending the night with us.  They were upset, wanting their mother and their father.  I had put a mattress on the floor for them to sleep on, fearing they would fall off the bed.  I squeezed in between them and read a story or two or three to them until they fell asleep.
And the next day Pop-pop and I took them to the beach, for the last time.

When it was time for Anne and Domani to leave, Domani decided he would rather spend a little more time with us.  As he rebelled against putting his jacket on, wriggling his arms out of the sleeves and then running away, displaying a little bit of a temper, I thought about how difficult it must be for Anne at time like this without Joe to help.

When it was time for Jimmy to walk out of the front door, wrapped in the knitted scarf, hat and fingerless mitts I made for him, I wanted to hold on to him forever.  “Text me when you get home, okay?”

Ross turned on the TV.  Ryan came into the room.  Where had he been hiding this whole day?  He flopped on the sofa and he and Pop-pop started watching Superman.  I went over to the sofa and sat down next to Ryan.  I grabbed him and snuck in a hug.  He giggled and wiggled out of my arms.

As I sat with Jackson, happy and content on my lap, smiling up at his big sister, I realized that this Saturday after Thanksgiving Day, day will be filled with the memories of my family, each and every one of them, because they actually were all here in one way or another.

By the way, Ross, I couldn’t have done this without you.  My goodness, you cleaned up the whole kitchen.  I didn’t have to wash a dish.  It was nice to have the time to sit and relax and make memories.

Being Human And a Thanksgivukkah Salmon Dinner

Thanksgiving
November 28, 2013
For The Record

I woke up at 5:30 but forced myself to stay in bed until 6:00.
6:00: I grabbed my knitting and my lap top and headed out to the kitchen to put the tea kettle on.

As I settled into my favorite chair with my mug of tea, I did some Christmas shopping online.   I’m a sucker for the annual Lenox and Hallmark series ornaments.

It’s now 7:12,
Time to take my photo of the day.  It looks like the storm from yesterday has passed.  It’s a bright sunny day.

Rico and Ross are still in bed.









Between then and now - 9:15:

I knitted a couple of rounds of “The Never-ending Very Simple Scarf” that I am working on.  I found the pattern on Ravelry here. I am about half way through with it.

I put down my knitting and straightened up a little, you know made the bed, put stuff in order around the house, and threw in a load of wash.
We are having breakfast now, cheerios and banana for me, some kind of shredded wheat for Ross.

Between then and now - 11:35:

I showered, washed my hair and got dressed.
Ross went on the treadmill for 45 minutes.
I decided to make the meatballs for our Saturday after Thanksgiving day dinner.
A little over 2 pounds of ground beef from the German Butcher made 29 meatballs.
Ross was the taste tester.  He said they were Deelish!

Between then and now 5:30:
I straightened out my closet, it was getting out of hand.

After that I vegged out in front of the TV with my knitting.   I got interested in the National Geographic series “Life Below Zero”.  They were running a marathon today, playing all of the episodes.
According to their website:

About the Show

Life Below Zero follows six people as they battle for the most basic necessities in the state with the lowest population density in the United States. Living at the ends of the world's loneliest roads and subsisting off the rugged Alaskan bush, they battle whiteout snow storms, man-eating carnivores, questionable frozen terrain, and limited resources through a long and bitter winter. Some of them are lone wolves; others have their families beside them. All must overcome despairing odds to brave the wild and survive through to the spring.

I am fascinated by the people who choose to live this type of life.  My objection, though, was there were too many commercials.  That’s why I only watched a couple of the shows and then I switched over to the SyFy series Being Human.  

All three seasons are currently available on Demand.
A few years ago I watched the entire BBC version.  The story line for the American version is following the BBC one pretty closely.  Since I already know the plot, it is not as interesting.  So, I only watched two episodes.  I might go back to it.  

Then we watched the first episode of the new BBC series Atlantis.  It is pretty corny.  I am not invested. 

But with all of the televiewing I did today I managed to finish the scarf.  It's blocking now.  

Ross cooked our Thanksgivukkah day Salmon dinner.  It was pretty tasty.

 It was a quiet Thanksgiving Day for us today.  We didn’t visit with anyone.
Aunt Edie left us a Happy Thanksgiving message.
Jimmy, Jen, Derek and the kids, Anne and Domani had dinner at Ken’s.
It’s 10:00 and the end of this Thanksgiving day for me.  I’m tired.
Good-Night.

On The Morning of The Eve of The Day of Giving Thanks

Wednesday, November 27, 2013
The Day Before The Day Of Giving Thanks




Stormy








Like the mashed potatoes and gravy that will surely be on the table,  it seems that everyone starts to get all mushy and drippy the days leading up to the last week in November.  It is clearly obvious that on the eve of and particularly the day of the last Thursday of the month, like an overstuffed turkey, heart swelling sentiments cannot be contained.

It is generally requested, no, actually I believe it is mandatory, that one must be ready to share with those they are gathered among, if not a list, at least one thoughtful idea.

It’s so curious to me how serious and mindful individuals suddenly become.  Early on in the day, probably whilst still in the midst of a flushy homemade wine glow and then later on bloated by an obvious tryptophan induced stupor, sloppy introspective feelings are often revealed.

I know this post seems itchy and scratchy.  Frankly, I don’t get it.  Oh, I am sure there was a time when I did, get it I mean.  But then, like two week old left-overs, these last weeks of November have turned sour and bitter tasting to me.

Since I am old, I have gained experienceponentially wisdom, (yeah I made it up).  I recognize that I sometimes might be lucky enough to get the longer end of the wish-bone.  But, wishes, like gratitude, can not change seemingly random but excruciatingly painful circumstances of life.   A life, which I undoubtedly and apparently, have no control over.

I miss my father, Romeo, who spent his last Thanksgiving trying to be hospitable to his sisters who brought him a full turkey dinner which he could not eat.  He died a few days later.

I miss my mother, Priscilla, who asked me the week before, if she would be here to share a meal with us.  She died two days before Thanksgiving.

I painfully, so painfully, miss my son Joe.  He tried to please us all by attempting to eat a few bites of his dinner to prove that he was trying hard to stay with us because he promised, “We still have time.”  He died on December 5, only a few days after that Thanksgiving.

One of the last times I spent with my brother Adam, he was “scared”.  “Bad things happen at Thanksgiving,” he said.   He died last Wednesday.

Today, on this morning of the eve of The Giving of Thanks day, it is dreary.
My senses are dulled by the warm blustery, gusty wind, the dullness of the gray skies, and the steady driving rain.

But that like the storm and the lady caught in the rain walking her dog (who sometimes won’t walk so she has to bring along his stroller),  there is movement.  And with movement comes change.









I, as a wizened old lady, know that I can’t change what was.  Today, on this day of the eve of Thanksgiving, I am sad.  I will cry and sob like a new born baby for my dad, my mom, my son and my brother.

How Cold Is It Going To Get? Stay Tuned...

November 24, 2013
Sunday
It’s about 7:00 A.M.

I was amused last night watching the 10:00 news.   I guess marketing studies show that viewers will hang on through the “news” reports of shootings, fires, or the ridiculousness of the latest outrageous politician’s antics to find out what tomorrow’s weather is going to be.
I love how they tease the weather at the beginning of the broadcast.
“It’s going to get cold, folks.  So prepare to bundle up.”
“How cold is it going to get?”
"Stay tuned for that and more later on in the broadcast.”

Why? Why do I have to wait until later on in the broadcast?  Why can’t you tell me now?

Okay I admit it.  My ears perk up when I hear Sam Champion’s voice.  I will look up from my knitting to catch a glimpse of the weather map with the various swirling color coded areas indicating low/high/steady pressure systems and cold/warm/stormy fronts.
None of it really makes any sense to me.
Ross takes a quick glance at the map and with his apparently acquired amateur meteorologist’s knowledge, seems to understand the darn things.
He’ll say, “See? That dot right there?  That’s us. It’s raining.”

 If I wanted to,  I can always instantaneously find out the weather.  No, not by tuning into the weather channel.  Because the weather channel teases the weather too.  We have to endure the horror stories of  extreme weather events before we get our local weather on the eights.
What does "on the eights" mean anyway?

And no I don’t mean by checking the weather.com app on my phone.   Although, that is probably the most concise way,  it doesn’t always seem to be the most accurate.

I can do what I did this morning.  First, I looked out of my window. Next I stepped out of my door.  When I had to  pull my robe a little tighter around me and my hair was blowing I knew that it was cold and windy.

Then I looked at my great big thermometer and guess what?  I was right.  It's a cold day today, folks!


By the way, it is the end of November and we are in the North Eastern part of the country.  So, why do the weather forecasters get all euphoric when the wind blows?

I Love You Jimmy Blackberry

November 23, 2013
Eight O'Clock A.M.

I have been faithfully participating in NaBloPoMo  (National Blog Posting Month) for November.  That means I have been attempting to post each day in November.
Well, I almost made it.  I didn’t post yesterday.   
It’s tough to be able to think of something to write everyday.
To fill a blank screen, I could have blathered on and on.  But, then all I would have wound up with is a bunch of  gobbledygook.  And even I wouldn’t want to read that.  
Instead of writing I could have just posted a photo or two, but that doesn’t require any effort and I wouldn’t feel that I really participating.
So, my journey with NaBloPoMo ends here.  I will go back to posting whenever I get the unstoppable urge to blow a kiss into the blogosphere. 

Dear Son,
I woke up this morning thinking of you.  It’s going to be a beautiful day.  Sunny and warm.  I was a little worried when I didn’t hear from you last night.  Always, at around about 8:30 each night, I have come to expect your call. 
It’s funny, because you have had a couple of different phones and phone numbers during the past 6 months, I have you listed in my contacts more than once.   So, in order to distinguish between the different numbers, I have associated your various phone numbers with different names.
The phone you most often use to call me is your Blackberry. 
I have my answering machine set to  “Talking Caller ID”.   When the phone rings,  I wait for the computerized voice to announce “Call… from… Jim…Me… Black…berry.”  
I missed hearing that last night.
I know you were anxious about today.  I am proud of you for taking this step.  My heart is filled with hope for you because I know how much this means to you.
This morning, at 5:30, I had thoughts of jumping in the car to go with you.  
Even though it goes against my maternal grain,  deep down inside I know that this is something you have to do on your own.  I will worry about you, I can’t help myself.  But I know you’ll be okay.  After all you have the two most important motivators in the world.  Keep those two little guys close to your heart.   They may not understand right now, but someday soon they will.
I will keep you close to my heart.  
Grandma Ciaf passed away four years ago today.  She held you close in her heart and I have a feeling she is watching out for you too. 
Thank you for calling me this morning, Jimmy Blackberry.  I love you. 

Lollygagging The Day Away

I have decided to participate in the National Blog Post Month for November.  That means I am going to be posting each day in November.

November 21, 2013

















I lingered in bed and muddled through the morning.   I lollygagged away the afternoon and I never got around to changing out of the clothes I wore to bed last night.   Now I am vegging out in front of the TV.
I appreciate and savor the quiet and peaceful days like the one I had today.  

On November 19 Oxford dictionary announced the word of the year:

Selfie

Partying Like Jessie Pinkman

I have decided to participate in the National Blog Post Month for November.  That means I am going to be posting each day in November

November 20, 2013

Most of the years that my brother was a part of my life, I believed that his life’s story was a sad and tragic one.   
In my reflections about him though, I have come to understand that because of his eccentricity it became a necessity that he learn how to survive in a world which was just not quite the right fit for someone like him.
Sometimes I think he genuinely thought that he wanted a “normal” life, like the ones we all had.  I suppose by that he meant a mate, a couple of kids, a dog, a house and well, everything short of the white picket fence.
I’m sure I only know a fraction of the reality of what was Adam’s normal.  I suspect that the blowout that was his life was so much of a seductive addiction that it was one which he would not and eventually could not free himself of. 
He would periodically drift in and out of our lives.  I have to say that I was ashamed and frankly embarrassed by him.  I admit that I was even afraid of him.  I couldn’t imagine how he could live where he lived, and do the things he did.
In May of this year, we were notified that he was hospitalized and in a coma.  We, his family, who had given up on him, suddenly came together to gather around his bedside.
He miraculously recovered and we, his family, began to forgive, heal and forget. 
One day, a couple of months ago, Ross and I took him out for lunch.  He was not very steady on his feet, but he was anxious to go.   When he stepped out into the sunlight he took a deep breath as he so obviously savored the freshness of the cool air. 
He wanted to go into the neighborhood that he once called home, his old stomping grounds. 
He picked the place, a stark no frills Chinese eatery.  The front door was propped open and we had a view of the pedestrian street traffic.  As we sat on plastic chairs and ate our egg rolls off of paper plates,  every once in a while, someone would stop and sit down on the front stoop of the restaurant.  Adam kept looking at those walking by, apparently trying to see if he recognized any of them.  
He said that he must have been away too long because he didn’t spot anyone he knew.
He pointed down the street and told me that he lived in a building not too far from where we were.  He recalled how his place was the party house.  He talked about the time the party went non-stop twenty-four seven for a whole week.   His description reminded me of a scene from Breaking Bad and Jessie’s blacked out pad. 
To tell you the truth I was curious.  I wondered what that must have been like.  Although I knew that I would never have an experience like that, especially not me,  I tried to imagine how it would feel to lose myself in a hazy stupor for a whole week.  
And for the first time in our lives, for a brief minute I mentally changed places with my brother, something I could never picture myself doing.  

My brother, Adam, passed away today at 2:00 a.m.  He lived for 53 years and three months. We, his family, are very sad.  

He Hears Us I Just Know He Does

I have decided to participate in the National Blog Post Month for November.  That means I am going to be posting each day in November.

November 19, 2013

This morning I spent time with my grandson whose life is bright and new   I cuddled and held him and stroked his soft, sweet smelling head. 
I rocked him and softly hummed a song with no words until he closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful sleep. 

This afternoon I visited with my brother Adam, who is no longer able to communicate.    
I wonder if my brother feels pain.  Luke, the nurse who was taking care of Adam assured us that he, Luke, would be able to tell if Adam was uncomfortable in any way.   I suppose I have to trust that Luke, who has had much experience with terminal, end of life patients would indeed be able to tell if Adam was in pain and would compassionately care for him by administering the proper medications as needed. 
I spoke with Adam’s hospice doctor today.  I asked if Adam would ever come out of his unresponsive state.  She shook her head and quietly said no.  
I was once told that a person’s hearing is the last sense to go and that when someone is in a coma their loved ones should talk to them because they could hear what is being said. 
I wondered out loud if that was truly the case.  The doctor said no, that Adam could not hear us.   
I believe, though, that the doctor who has had much experience with patients who are at the end of their life, was not listening or hearing what I was asking.  Perhaps what she meant to say was that Adam could not totally process what he was hearing. 
After the doctor left the room, I knelt down by the side of my brother’s bed.  When I said his name, he opened his eyes. I touched his shoulder and he scrunched his face in a grimace.  I think his skin hurts.  
I stroked his forehead and told him to close his eyes and rest. And he did. 

No I don’t believe that anyone, even the so called experts, truly knows what it feels like to be in the final hazy, hushed and silent hours of life. 

Life…
This morning I felt the wriggling warmth of new life in my arms.  
This afternoon, I felt the pain filled struggle of a fading life. 

Try A Little Tenderness

I have decided to participate in the National Blog Post Month for November.  That means I am going to be posting each day in November.

November 18, 2013 
A Bright Blue Sunny Day 

Photo taken at 2:30 this afternoon

Rising Moon Through The Pines

Temperature at 11:00 p.m.

Harvest Moon at 11:00 p.m.

 Under The Full Moon

My brother’s health continues to decline.  He is now under the care of hospice.  
The last time I visited with him was one of the most upsetting and emotional moments of my life.  
This was about two weeks ago.  He had been brought back to the hospital yet once again and was being cared for in the ICU. 
On our way to the hospital I remembered that he would be breathing with the help of a respirator.  But,  I was not prepared for the condition he was in.  There were tubes, wires and IV’s.  
When we walked into the room his eyes were open, however he appeared to be in an awake trance.  He just stared straight ahead.  I called his name and asked him to blink if he knew that I was there.  And he did.  
The nurse came in shortly after I got there.  She began the complex routine of the maintenance of his care.  I instinctively knew that if I were in that condition, I would want my privacy.   I would also definitely not want my brother to be in the room while the nurse attended to the most personal of my care.   
So, even though the nurse insisted that it would not be a problem if I stayed in the room, I knew that my brother would probably be more comfortable if I stepped out of the room until the nurse was finished. 
As I waited out in the hallway, I thought about the nurse’s casual attitude.   I had to remind myself that this was her job, a job that she does day in and day out and one that she is specially trained for.  
But I wondered if part of a medical worker’s curriculum should be the valuable lessons of  sensitivity regarding the dignity of the patient and awareness of the feelings of the family.  I also believe that these lessons should be continually reinforced.
While I understand that it would be impossible for a professional caregiver to continue to treat their patients if they became emotional about every patient, I also believe that it would add an important layer to the level of care they administer if they kept in mind that  the person helplessly lying in that hospital bed is someone's  husband, or brother or son and most importantly a treasured loved one.  
Tonight, my visit with my brother was not nearly as upsetting as that day a few weeks ago.     When I walked into the room I saw my brother, his eyes closed, comfortably sleeping.  There were no tubes, wires or machines. He was being treated with comfort medicines. 
Except for the sound of his breathing, the room was quiet and he seemed peaceful.   
When I called his name,  he opened his eyes for a brief second and I knew that he knew I was there.