ima...gin...ation

Originally written on November 4, 2011 and updated on January 9, 2012

Gin was my Mother's last remaining sibling. She passed away in the middle of the night on Sunday, January 8, 2012.

When I was little, my family spent summer days at Joslin Lake with my Barth cousins. On one of those afternoons, as I was sitting in the shallow water making mud pies, I was also watching my older cousins and siblings as they were standing on their heads farther in the lake. I didn't know that you couldn't breathe underwater, but I sure tried to stand on my head in the lake that day. In my yellow, ruffled, polka-dot bikini, I floundered and flopped around and most likely swallowed a minnow along with some yummy lake water. Uncle Bob snatched me out of the water and took me into the cottage, where my Mother and Aunt dried me off and tried to calm me. Aunt Gin asked me what I saw under the water, and I stuttered, "N-n-n-nothing" to which she replied, "Why...I bet you saw an Octopus under there. Did you see an Octopus?" I thought about it, nodded my head, said yes, and giggled.  Within minutes, we had turned that Octopus into a purple one.

That was the beginning of my imaGINation...
and my lifelong repartee with Aunt Virginia. Every time I walked toward her, my goal was to make her laugh.

I could not make her laugh the morning of November 4, 2011, but I had hoped that my constant commenting eased whatever physical or emotional pain she was in. 

During my final visit with Gin on Friday, January 6, 2012, I sat next to her for about 15 minutes and calmly babbled about this and that. I believe that she could hear me and understand me, because when I told her that I left Skip in the car, like a dog, she reacted by softly laughing, but it was that laugh of hers that said, "Oh, Mary!" 

There was a hospice worker in the room with us, and she was rubbing scented oil on Gin's feet to calm her while some medication worked its magic. So, I told the Octopus in Joslin Lake story to them both and then told my Aunt...my Godmother...that I would remember that story always...I will remember her always. 

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.

House chapter

It's funny how that house was my house for 8 years, but it seems so in the past to me now.

When I walked through yesterday, I could see my girls running, playing, dancing. I could see birthday parties and Christmas trees.

I am grateful for it...I stood there on my own, but with support from family and friends.

When I walk through my new home, I already remember my daughters here. I can see parties and Christmas trees to come.

I am grateful...to stand next to Skip.

Gratitude Journal

I'm reading a book that suggests a gratitude journal. So, I'm thinking about spending a little bit of time on that and a little less web-surfing. Of course, this gratitude journal is strictly selfish. The gist is that if you give gratitude that you will in turn feel better about yourself. So, to start things off as honestly as possible, I give gratitude for me! Because I am absolutely awesome.

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.)

Mother

A family poem copied and shared here to tell my cousin Patty how much I love her!

Amid anxiety, pain and fear,
She gave us life that we hold dear,
She watched us open baby eyes
And crooned us restful lullabies.
Our moods and smiles she understood
And saw us pass from babyhood
Into the realm of budding years
With mingled joy and pride and tears.

She taught us little words and talk
And coached us as we learned to walk,
She kissed our little bumps and aches
And eased our hearts of fancied breaks,
Our way she smoothed with doting care,
As climbed upward life's great stair
And gazed in awe at all the world,
As, lo its wonder were unfurled.

Then, as in years we older grew,
Her guiding hand was present, too,
And when our urge arrived to mate
And build a home beyond her gate,
She sat alone with memories
Of romping tots and pleasantries.
And then, content--her life complete
She journeyed on, her God to meet.

by: Henry James Mullen

This poem was presented with the compliments of the author, on the occasion of his 90th Birthday on July 20, 1969.

Henry was my Mother's Mother's Brother or Patty's Father's Mother's Brother.

When Patty said how she missed her Mom today, I thought of Sandy's heartfelt laugh, and then I thought of Patty's Dad, my Uncle Bob and how he laughed and called me Little Mary. I have many memories of Uncle Bob sitting in his wheelchair on the farm porch, which made me think of my one memory of Uncle Henry, sitting in a wheelchair on the porch at the farm.I just knew that Uncle Henry must have written a poem about Mothers, because we Barths...we love our Moms! No matter what happens in this world, the lives of family intertwine and mingle and our spirits dance around in our hearts forever joining us, healing us, being a part of us.

Absentee Blogger Ballott

This blogger has been absent, because:

a. she fell down a hill.
b. she fell off the grid.
c. she fell into a movie.
d. she fell in love.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but the heart growing fonder makes the blogger go absent. I am so much in love that I haven't had to blog. Blogging gave me a chance to speak my mind and my heart to someone who would listen, but now I have a real live man who listens to me, who loves me, who laughs with me. I never in a million years believed that such a wonderful man existed. He makes me be better. And that's a difficult task, because I was darn good to begin.