by jphilo | May 28, 2012 | Family
Camp Dorothy opened for business on Sunday which means Mom and I are painting the town red. We’re having so much fun, what with hot Uno games, Judge Judy and Wheel of Fortune, drives around town, reading library books, and decorating family graves, time is short for blogging. So today’s post is something I wrote after a Memorial Day several years ago, when Mom still lived in her own home. Every time I read it, it makes me smile.
You Have To Stop Somewhere
Hats pulled down and coats buttoned up, gloves hard at work my mother, sister and I shivered all the way to from where we live in Boone to my father’s hometown of Nevada.
“More like March than May 12,” Mom commented as we pulled into the grand, old cemetery, its lush grass surrounded by stone walls. The huge shade trees creaked and swayed.
“It’s a blessing that Gladys and Ginny aren’t here,” Mom added. “This wind would have blown them away.”
My sister and I knew it was true, but we missed our ancient great-aunts. Gladys and Ginny, ages 102 and 96 respectively died last year within months of one another. For decades, the responsibility of decorating the family graves had rested on their thin, stooping shoulders and they bore the weight well. My mother often drove to Nevada on a warm May day, tucking the tiny great-aunts in her car amidst the boxes of artificial flowers.
“We’ll decorate and then go to Dairy Queen for a treat,” my mother, Dorothy, promised.
“Let’s go to Mama and Papa’s graves first.” Love saturated Gladys’s high, cracking voice. “Mama made the best bread.”
“The very best. She was such a good mama,” Ginny agreed, the memory of her parents dead now for eighty years, fresh upon her face.
Mom eased them out of the car. “Next, let’s do Grandma and Grandpa’s,” Ginny suggested.
“Grandpa was in the Civil War, Dorothy, did you know that?” Gladys asked my mother.
“He was such a nice man. He always had time for us,” Ginny added. “Oh, Gladys, don’t forget Aunt Lettie. She died so young, such a tragedy.”
As kids we heard of Lettie’s early end whenever we held sharp objects. “She was running with scissors and stabbed herself in the eye. Then she developed an eye infection and died.” I always walked when carrying scissors.
Slowly they moved from grave to grave. All three decorated their husbands’ graves. Then, Gladys paused at her infant son’s headstone, and Ginny where her soldier son, one of the first killed in the Korean War, lay beneath his veteran’s marker. They stopped to visit my grandparents and mourn again the early loss of their sister, my Grandmother Fern, after her long battle with colon cancer. They tucked flowers around the headstones of brothers Guy and Lee and Lee’s wife Stena. At one final stop, they left a bouquet for their oldest brother, Willie, who left farming because of a nervous condition. “He was so nervous he couldn’t keep the rows straight when he plowed,” Ginny explained.
“So he became a barber instead,” Gladys added. “We’re ready for Dairy Queen now.” They hobbled toward the car.
“What about Roy?” Mom pointed to the resting place of their other brother Roy. He died in the swine flu epidemic of 1918 before he could take over the farm after Papa passed on and left the sainted Mama with young daughters to raise. Roy’s death forced the aunts, orphaned teenagers, off the farm and into the homes of relatives.
“Hmmph.” Ginny sniffed.
“You’ve got to stop somewhere,” Gladys announced, and the sisters continued their feeble march to the car.
“Will we decorate Roy’s grave?” I asked my sister as we headed toward the family plot.
“Of course we will. It’s time to let go of old grudges, don’t ya think?”
We stopped in front of his grave and helped our mother out of the car into the wind and cold of our May morning. We planted silk flowers in front of his headstone, maybe a few extra to wipe out any former neglect. “We forgive you, Roy,” my sister said.
We decorated every family grave we could find and lingered at Gladys and Ginny’s. Clear as a bell, I heard a high, cracking voice, “Jolene, you have to stop somewhere.” Tears filled my eyes, and I smiled with joy and sadness. “Not yet, Aunt Gladys, not quite yet.” I replied as the cold May wind settled the comfortable weight of their family memories upon our shoulders. “See you again, next year,” I whispered and walked slowly to the car
by jphilo | May 27, 2011 | Family
My mom is not the person she was before Alzheimer’s started messing with her head. She can no longer:
- milk ten cows before getting on the bus to go to high school.
- stay up all night reading newly released novels like Gone With the Wind.
- match her big brothers bale for bale while hauling in the hay crop.
- reign as Iron Maiden of the Franklin School playground.
- bake a pie.
- move heavy furniture without a lick of help.
- remember the way to the cemetery where her husband is buried.
And yet, on Tuesday when Hiram and I drove Mom to that cemetery to decorate graves, what she is able to do remains a joyful and welcome comfort. She still can:
- read a novel a day.
- count out the exact change after taking us to lunch.
- appreciate the rare beauty of a perfect May day.
- find joy in the accomplishments of her grandchildren.
- tease her children relentlessly.
- remember how much her sister Ruth admired the trees in the cemetery where Dad is buried.
- Walk across bumpy grass to pay her respects at the graves of her husband and in-laws.
After arranging the flowers beside the headstone, I asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of you beside Dad’s grave?”
Mom glanced first at Dad’s name on the gravestone, then pointed to the grass in front of her own. Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like me to lay down and demonstrate the coming attraction?”
Hiram and I burst out laughing, and so did she. With big belly laughs that have lasted all week. Because my mom is still Dorothy Stratton. She’s still got her sense of humor.
She’s still got it.
by jphilo | Jun 1, 2010 | Daily Life
Yesterday was one of those days. You know the kind. You wake up and make your to do list, realizing it’s slightly ambitious but confident that if you just put your mind to it, you can work your way through it and get to the really important stuff, like getting ahead on writing because you’re going to be out of town later in the week.
My list started with laundry, which I started as soon as I got out of bed. I moved on watering the flowerbeds and outdoor pots, moving the hose each time I finished a lap of my walk. As soon as that was done, I hung clothes on the line and was feeling pretty pleased with myself until the phone rang. Someone who bought a copy of A DIfferent Dream for My Child at Mom’s Memorial Day Reunion wanted to stop by and buy ten more. Who could say no to a deal like that? Quickly, I cleaned up, ate breakfast and counted out the books.
The phone rang.
The same lady was one the line, spelling out names for the inscriptions on the books. Once those were ready, I hung more clothes on the line, sent in the monthly Melaleuca order, and posted the day’s blog.
The phone rang.
This time, it was a friend from South Dakota, calling to make sure we would be at the Sky Ranch Anniversary celebration later this week. Of course we had to talk for awhile, and by the time we ended the conversation, I wondered if there would be time in the day to get ahead on the writing so I can leave for the reunion Thursday as planned.
The doorbell rang.
It was the book buyer. Once the sale was complete, I raced to the grocery store and came home to unload them.
The phone rang.
The eye doctor’s secretary called to remind me of an appointment tomorrow. I thanked her and eyed my to do list. So much to do before getting to the writing stuff.
The phone rang.
It was someone from a hotel where I’d attended a college reunion some years back. Were we interested in planning another one? I said no, hung up and went outside to take most of the clothes off the line, folded them and ate a quick lunch.
The phone rang.
A friend from church had been to the daughter’s wedding website and had an enigmatic shower gift question about their superhero kitchen theme. She wouldn’t say much about her plans, and I ended the call, very curious indeed. I took the last few clothes off the line, came back inside and started writing.
The phone rang.
Someone from Des Moines inquiring about a speaking engagement, but it didn’t work out. I went back to writing, but my mind kept wandering to the Bryant School Open House later in the day. Bryant was my kids’ elementary school, and my Camelot for so many years. It’s closing at the end of this school year, and I’m going back for one last visit before the doors are locked forever.
I didn’t really have time, not with that unfinished to do list.
But the sounds of Bryant School rang in my ears – happy voices of children playing outside, chanting multiplication facts, and singing Christmas carols, my former co-workers laughing in the teachers’ lounge, their tears when tragedies struck, their encouragement when life grew hard, and their good-byes at the end of each school year.
I didn’t really have the time to go, but I went anyway. The to do list could wait. Saying good-bye for the last time could not.
Good-bye, Camelot. Good-bye.
