a bare light bulb

Today...Heaven is a one-room apartment over a downtown greasy spoon, with just a table and a chair, and a bare light bulb swinging from the ceiling.

RIP Ike.

I met Ike in 1987 when I was a silly college girl, and I loved him. I like to think of Ike as a strong, smart, stoic man with a fine sense of humor. He said over and over that how I describe Heaven above would be his ideal place to stay.

Memories of summer mornings at the bakery with donuts and coffee and afternoons at the Siena ballpark fill my head. We had great conversations, just the two of us, about all sorts of things. And of course, in the last 10 or so years, he read what he could about autism and shared interesting bits with me. I appreciated that interest.

And of course, I will never forget when Grandpa Ike and Grandma Ruth came to Chelsea for a visit several years ago. Hannah and Grandpa Ike went to town to pick up sandwiches from ZouZous. While they were out and about, my wonderful friend Constance called me to say that she was in town and just saw Hannah with an older man that she didn't recognize and was Hannah supposed to be in town with this man. I assured her that Hannah was with her Grandpa. Grandpa Ike loved that my friend had called and that I had people all over watching out for my girls! Ike talked about that call every time he came for a visit since then, and he always chuckled about it!

Grandpa Ike passed away last night a little before 8 p.m. Hannah and I were lucky enough to make it to Mishawaka on Friday evening to talk with Ike for about an hour or so before the morphine, etc., began to help ease his pain and help him ease away. How honored I feel that we could be there with him and hear his quick wit and gentlemanly manners one more time on this earth. His sons, grandchildren, and even a great-grandchild came to his side. Those who could make it were blessed to feel his love, moved to distract him from his failing body, and lucky to hear him say that he was ready and at peace. (I think that Ike also appreciated anyone who helped family get to him on Friday.)

He said some very nice things about me to me. He didn't have to do that...that he did is a testament to the man that he was.

He thanked me. (I have no words to describe the feelings.)

Life is short. Make time for and peace with your family and friends. I did my best to foster a good relationship with Ike and Ruth, but I do have the regret that perhaps I could have done better. Losing someone is always such a revelation...like a bare light bulb.

Uncle Harold...It was time.

Uncle Harold passed away sometime before 5 a.m. (It was time.) When my Mother called to tell me, I knew what the early morning call was. Fr. Bill was there last night to provide Last Rites. I am glad that he was able to make it on Ash Wednesday.

I stopped to visit Uncle Harold yesterday for just about 5 minutes or so. It seemed like a long time. It was strange that his chair in the living room was empty. He couldn't get out of bed yesterday. For a lifetime gentleman farmer not to get out of bed in the morning, you know something is different. I met two Hospice workers and his caregiver, and my Mom and my Aunt were there.

I didn't have much time. (It was time.)

In his home hospital bed, Uncle Harold was curled on his right side facing the wall...to the north. My Mom started to tell me that Fr. Bill would be coming and something that the Hospice ladies had said. Uncle Harold "said" something. It was audibly something between a mumble and a grunt, but I knew it had to have been something witty. He had humor to the end. I said to him, "Oh, it's all right," and he quieted. He could hear us; I know it.

When the Hospice workers were getting ready to go, my Mom left the room to see them out.

I had some things to say, but I could not say it all. I have always been cheerful and entertaining with Uncle Harold. I did not want him to hear the tears in my voice. I leaned over Uncle Harold and whispered, "I love you, Uncle Harold, I love you." His change in breathing and physical reaction told me that he heard. I said that I couldn't stay, that Soph was in the Jeep waiting to go to music, and I started for the door. Then I turned around, touched his shoulder, and said, "We will meet again." He relaxed.

You see, for years, when I left a visit, I would say, "See you later!" and he would retort, "Are you sure?"

Uncle Harold is 96 years old. Or is that was now? (It was time.)

He was 52 years old when I was born. I am 44. He lived a whole lifetime before I knew him, and then he lived another.

I remember...

...him throwing me up into the air and catching me.
...standing over the heat register at the Farm.
...swerving toward me in his truck when I was walking down the road.
...driving the tractor while I sat on the wheel fender.
...standing in my Mom's living room doorway every night around 6 p.m. for a visit.
...him jumping out of the red International truck to pick up rocks while I "drove" it.
...ushering for years with my Dad at church.
...living next door for as long as I can remember.
...his calm, his wit, his laughter.

He was a good, gentle, sweet man.

I might seem like a good niece. I would once in a while stop and visit him in the morning before I would go to work. But in reality, I was stopping for me. He was so funny, so calm, had such a sweet demeanor. He would, without trying or even knowing, give me a better attitude, a happier start to my day when perhaps I was feeling overwhelmed or angry about something in my life.

What else I wanted to say, but could not: I have fond memories of you, and I will remember you, and I will miss you. But...

(It was time.)

Sometimes, a dog is just a dog, and sometimes not

(My friend just got a new dog, and she blogged about memories and the way this new dog stirs her. I started to comment on her post, but then the words and thoughts grew too many.)

I had to put my beloved Tyler the dog down about a year after my Dad died, I think. I loved that old dog. When I sat holding him while he passed from this world, I cried. I wrapped him in a blanket and took him home. It comforts me to know that he came home with me. Of course, I stayed with him through to the end.

He always stayed with me. He sat beside me and comforted me when I was in labor, when no one else was there...when my then-current husband was either at work for the first pregnancy or boffing his girlfriend during my second pregnancy.

Sometimes, a dog seems like a lot of work - the never-ending circle of let me out and let me in over and over - and the constant barking, whining, crying to be included in every aspect of family life. Isn't that like any relationship though? It's work, sometimes harder than you want, but sometimes great fun. Just because the dog is sometimes annoying, irritating, sassy, you don't give up. You can yell at a dog, and he still comes running back to you full of hope and love in his eyes. Maybe some people should just have a dog?

Of course, people who are bad with people might also be bad with dogs. Dogs are practice children. They are responsibility without too much worry. My ex loves my current dog, pets him, plays with him. Too bad for the ex that he hasn't seen Rascal in 14 months. Maybe some people will never understand? Maybe some people shouldn't even have a dog?

My dog gives and gives and gives even more. I love that old dog!

Death and Birth and all between

Well, I imagine that poor Harold is buried by now. He was a son, husband, father, and grandfather, at the young age of 41. I'm tired of seeing young men, lying in a box. It's too sad to see his wife, hugging, crying, begging for emotional comfort. I offered what I could: a hug and my daughter as a babysitter, if she needs. It's so not enough. And that's why I'll pray for her...for the strength she needs to bear it and the strength that she needs to persevere and the strength she needs to feel truly alive again.

Death, as much as I feel for the people closest to those lost, it makes me think of my own life and those in it. Time is slipping faster and faster by. There is so much to do, to be, to live. Should I prioritize? Should I grasp at all of it...the gusto? Should I just appreciate the ebb and flow of my everyday existence? Seek the joy in the simple? Enjoy what people come my way?

Too sad was the despair and ending last night. I needed to teeter-totter it. So, I looked for hope and beginning and found a brand new baby. He smiled, cooed, and made all sorts of baby noises...some not so pleasant. I offered what I could to him and accepted from his expressive eyes the simple, true love of a baby.

I guess how we start out life is how we continue through it. There's struggle in life, in every relationship-no matter how simple or complex, but the love we share during makes it all delightful. I am happy.

The Old Man and the Sign

My Dad sent me a sign tonight. It was Rodney.
When I visit my Dad at the cemetery, I chat with him a bit, walk over to the older relatives, back to my Dad, and then I glance over to Rodney and wave. Tonight, when I asked for a sign, which I always do, the Old Man made me really look at Rod's headstone.

July 31, 1999

10 years is a long time, but it really seems like yesterday.

I was just telling a co-worker today about Rodney, because she lost a young friend in an accident this week. Too sad.

I still remember that Saturday afternoon. My parents, Hannah, and a brother were at a picnic. I was about to join them, but got a call from Sister Helen (Rod's aunt). There'd been a farm accident and to pray. I walked up and down that sidewalk at my folks' house, carrying baby Sophie, whispering Hail Mary after Hail Mary.

Well, my prayers were answered, but not how I wanted, if that makes sense. Rod was called to Heaven. Some might argue where he went, but I know. He left a daughter and a woman who had loved him, and I was lucky enough to get to know those special girls after Rod passed.

I wasn't always nice enough to Rodney. Anyone who knew him knew it was sometimes hard to be nice though. Boy, he could tease me. One time, when we were teenagers, he made me so mad that I snatched his hat off his head and threw it on top of my parents' house. People laughed. He laughed, but I think I hurt his feelings, for which now I am sorry. He was just a boy to me...always.

Fast forward...at my wedding reception, where smoking was prohibited (Yes, even then, I was vehement!), Rod lit up. I told him off, but that didn't change anything. What a character! And then he made me feel so loved. He told my new husband that if he ever hurt me, he would be sorry, very sorry. He probably pounded his fist or something like that, and I'm sure gave him a very scary look to which I replied with my own scary look back at him, but no one could make him behave and secretly, I was pleased. I am sure that Rod would have carried out that threat if I had asked him, but I didn't want him to get into trouble. (And the ex-husband is "sorry" enough on his own!)

Rod was a good ol' boy until the end of his life...in many ways, but in the most obvious way to me, he was a boy in his heart, but trapped in a troubled body and hurt spirit. He's better now, easier now, content. But now, when a storm goes through, it's not God bowling; it's Rod thundering through, watering the crops, using those powerful feelings for good.

Life may have been hard for him at times, but he enjoyed it the best that he could. Someone reminded me tonight about Rod's laughter...

Can't you hear him laughing with us right now?

I can. He had a laugh. Man, he had a laugh. And I know I made him laugh a time or two.

After the funeral, they gave me something to remember him, not that I could ever, ever forget my lifetime friend, that boy that grew up down the road. They gave me a hat...a seed farm hat. I'm not sure that they remembered the hat incident, but I do. And I know that Rod got them to give it to me. I keep it at my Mom's on the top shelf of the closet in the spare room, because I just want to keep it. Keep it there. Keep it safe.

I know that Rod is one of my guardian angels. And now...I've gone through at least a dozen Kleenex. My eyes are swollen, and I'll have a crying headache tomorrow. I hope Rod knows that I would not do that, that crying, for just anyone.

So, where was my Dad trying to point me?

Embrace life. Don't be afraid to enjoy who comes into your life. The people in your life are what makes it wonderful and special and meaningful.

So, that's not exactly how the Old Man would have said it, but more like...

You do what you have to do.

And he probably would have added...

Oh...just get along with people.

And for good measure, Pop would have thrown in...

Are those your pajamas you're wearing out of the house?

He thought everything I wore in the 80s were pajamas. (I'm too sad. I gotta end on funny.)

I love Rodney. He is in my heart.

Get Motivated...to deal with past heartache

On the way to a Get Motivated seminar, the most innocent thing can cause such despair and pain and loss. But there is a place and time to feel those things and deal with those feelings. So, I made a deal then...with myself. Hold it in. Contain it. Push it down. Deal later. Dealing now...

I spent an afternoon at the corner of Jolly and Hagadorn Roads with that red barn some 12 years ago. Then, it was an antique dealer. It might still be, but I couldn't look that way for long this week. Just a glance brought back so much. It filled me up until my eyes were wet and I spoke softly.

Just about a year before Sophie arrived, I miscarried. It was "just" a blighted ovum, but she was also my child, and I had hopes and dreams for her. She has a name; I gave her Regan. Regan means regal or royal, and she seemed to be in a hurry to get to the Kingdom of God. So, it worked.

After the doctor appointment where she was removed from my aching heart, my husband (at that time) took me to that antique store on the corner there to take my mind off things. I wandered around, looking around, not seeing anything, but trying to mend the hole in my heart.

Although the sadness of that day doesn't overwhelm me now when I think about it, because without that baby turning into my angel then, I would not have my Sophie now! I know that she is the guardian angel for my two earth angels. But...being there, at that place where I felt so much sadness, even just driving by it, caught me off guard and filled me with the despair of that Autumn day almost 12 years ago.

I didn't want to go by again...thanks to the driver for understanding, for accommodating me without question. We didn't go by again. I didn't want to feel that way. No one should.

Crying for a neighbor

Dale E. Cooley, 80, of Mason, died Nov. 14, 2008. He was born June 24, 1928 in Charlotte. Surviving are his wife of 53 years, Virginia, a son Warren, and other family members. I never knew that Dale worked at A & P for 42 years and served two years in the U.S. Army, one year of which was spent on the Korean Peninsula.

What I knew...is remembered by what his wife wrote to me, received in today's mail:

We think of the happy times - and all the beautiful flowers Dale used to enjoy growing. He was pleased to have Hannah come to the edge of the yard and tell him hi, and she always had a mini-chat. One time, she told Dale that she was "sixteen," and now Hannah is so grown up and has a nice young sister...

Every evening when Hannah and I pulled into our driveway, I glanced over to see Dale puttering in his garden. He really did grow pretty flowers, but even better he grew a good neighbor. I can see my 3-year-old Hannah bounce over to the fence to make curious, but polite conversation. He would explain about his garden, carving lessons out of nature.

Dale and Virginia from their observant posts knew that I was a practically single Mother and then a truly single one. They never judged or intruded, but they made me feel safe by their presence across the narrow drive and a split rail fence.

We were tolerant neighbors. We knew inherently that the others were doing the best that they could to be considerate. Dale "taught" us about the messy berry tree at the end of our driveway in a way that suggested it might be good to get rid of it, which we did. The way that he guided us is a lost art form in neighborhoods full of young up and comers. Today's neighbors would complain about the tree and take legal action.

Dale even liked my dog. He really did, and Tyler the dog liked him. (That says a lot about a man, not just that a dog liked him, but this dog in particular who at times sided with his mistress and not his master.) Dale would reach down over the fence and pet Tyler while he would continue his chat with Hannah. Not once did Tyler snap at him.

If I close my eyes, I can see Dale over that backyard fence lined with chicken wire to keep the critters out, leaning on his rake, wiping his brow with a handkerchief pulled from his pocket, with his wheel barrow in front of him, smiling as Hannah bounds over for her evening greeting.

When I opened Virginia's letter, I cried.

Ben...too young

I went to a memorial service today. A 22-year-old boy, barely a man, even though he was a great big hunky corn-fed farmer! He did not have his seat belt on, drinking and speeding. He was not invincible. His Mom spoke today; she pleaded to wear a seat belt when you are in a car. If she sees you without one, she'll tell the cops to ticket you and make you donate to her son's memorial fund.

Although I knew Ben only occasion, I've known his family since I was 5 when I rode the same bus as his Mother and his 3 Aunts. His Aunt Laurie is one of my best friends. She recorded a beautiful song that they played today at the service. Her voice, just the thought of her emotions pouring out, made me tear up.

I drive by Ben's Grandparents house and see his name on the seed signs. I went to parties there and decorated a float for the fair parade.

I drive by the corner where he died. It's one road over from my Mom's.

I've picked pumpkins and watched farm animals at his parents' farm.

He wanted to be a farmer. He was a farmer. It's a sad thing to speak in past tense about someone so young.

Live life. Embrace it.

Sometimes, I feel like I am just getting by. A wise woman reminded me: some people live big, and others live more quietly.

Value life. Embrace it!

Death is stressful

The woman who watches my kids during the summer is really a wonderful, caring person. She has the patience of Job. She told me that as long as she is doing day care that Sophie has a place with her. What a relief to me to have that security. Sophie and Hannah are loved there.

In the span of 47 days, Belinda has lost her Mother, Brother, Uncle and a Cousin. Her brother died on Christmas, and she'll bury her Mother on Valentine's Day.

She feels alone. I wish I knew what to do to help.

Whenever I think about my Dad's dying, I have these quick flashbacks of what different people did for me. Not even what they did, but where I saw them. Those moments are etchings in my soul. Those moments still bring me love.

Belinda called tonight to thank me for calling our mutual friend Debbie yesterday to ask her to sing at her Mother's funeral. That was the very least that I could do, and she was so appreciative.

I think it helps to know that others are there. If I could, I would take a little bit of her pain and have it as my own.