Yesterday, as the girls and puppy romped in the back yard, I went looking for a four-leaf clover. Needless to say I didn't find one all day.
Mom was the best at finding four leaf clovers. In fact, she found clovers with many more leaves than just four. She had a secret for finding them. She told me her secret, and when I was younger I would be able to take a walk around the yard with her and find four-leaf clovers. The field was the best place to find many-leaved clovers, or the shoulder of the narrow country road. I will not disclose the secret here, you'll have to figure that one out for yourselves, but I will say that my sister Sarah has inherited the gift of finding four-leaf clovers. I don't think that I have found one since Mom died.
The frustrating part of it all is that in our neighborhood of perfectly groomed lawns without a weed or bare patch, my yard full of clover and dandelions stands out. That's okay with me, I like to feed the bees, but I don't think some of my neighbors are too keen on my not-weeding-much-of-anything approach to gardening. I like to grow wild flowers and would like to have so many flowers that weeds wouldn't even survive there. But I guess that's not exactly how it works.
I liked growing up where we could go out and play in the front yard and not have to worry about stepping on the grass. Mom weeded things all the time I suppose, but she had this kind of organic approach to gardening. Certain areas of the yard we just chock full of flowers, sometimes surrounded by rocks, there are flowers that edged the field down the hillside, peonies nestled into a strand of bushes next to a plum tree, wisteria growing up an iron "R" topped tripod that Dad made, and the mound where an old well is covered in various flowers, bushes and sprouts another plum tree at its edge. Though Mom is gone, things around the house still look about the same.
My house isn't in a rural area, but I like to go out in the middle of the yard and plant things. What's wrong with that? I just planted a peony and a tall, straight maple tree that had begun to grow in my garden, as well as transplanted hostas and day lilies to line the fence. This year the lilac bush Mom gave me a long time ago bloomed for the first time, and I gathered the girls and Jamie to smell its irresistibly sweet fragrance.
I think that I will keep my clover and dandelions. Maybe one of these days I will find a four-leaf clover. After all, if you're familiar with my previous work, you may know already that weeds like crab grass are C4 plants, meaning that they take in only carbon dioxide, thereby increasing their growing rate and sucking more carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere than other grasses, which accept other air molecules than carbon dioxide. And dandelions feed the bees. Just saying.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Motherless Children -- Folk Song
My March 19th post (The Scientist -- Coldplay) seemed very popular; apparently people are interested in whether or not you killed your mother. I got a lot of feedback from my family about it. In response to such feedback, I dedicate this blog to my family, those who are still around to speak to me, and to those who are not.
In reflection, the responses to the aforementioned blog post led me to understand that the post was one in which I had been working toward for a long time. Because I do feel guilty, not that I was responsible, but that there must have been things, signs that I missed. Perhaps I could have known what to look for, what to do about her health care, which I felt was less than subpar. But in my heart I know that there was nothing to be done. Her death was just what it was, nothing can ever change that, and we were lucky to have her here as long as we did. Even to this day I feel that she is with me both in my heart and in the person that I am. And when I make that perfect pan of cornbread or the perfect pancake batter I can almost taste her hand in my cooking.
On the way back from the hospital--and it's odd now that I can't remember exactly which time it was--if it was when we first found out that Mom was sick or when she had just passed away. But anyway, there wasn't much on the radio so I ended up tuning into NPR. Normally it's not my thing, but after being brought up listening to it on the radio every day of my life, I turn to it when only country music will tune in. On this particular day, it just happened to be bluegrass music, some rendition of an old song, that had the line, "...a sister will do when the mother is gone..." And I remember thinking that, in the cars ahead of us were my sisters. And when I thought of losing my mother I was sure that my sisters would be there for me, even my father and brother, and remaining grandparents. But how could we really carry on without Mom?
I suppose that my greatest fear is that if I don't write this down here, in my journal, somewhere, people may forget what a great person she was. Even the things that we may have complained, as children do, about Mom--her brutal honesty, her moodiness, or her unmistakeable authority over all--I find myself missing those things most of all. And on occaision you just need to hear what an idiot you're being. And Mom would have told you--sometimes without being asked.
It is also hard for me to write, knowing that Dad reads this and that he is the one in all of this who has lost his wife, the mother of his children, and his best friend. I don't want to ever have to feel the feeling that he must feel when he thinks of Mom. But I also know that the longer you live, the more people that you will have to watch die. Why is it that some are just so much harder than others? I thought the death of my Grandma Roark would break my heart. But losing my mother is so much harder. In time, I guess you get used to dead people not being around anymore. Like, oh let's go see Grandma--oh yeah, that's right, she's dead. Okay so Grandpa it is!
The last time I went to visit Dad I accidentally said, as we were preparing to leave, "Okay, let's go to Papa and GG's!" Really enthusiastically in the beginning, with my face crumbling in front of Anna-Lee into one of those oh-shit-I-just-said-the-wrong-thing cringes after I realized what had just escaped my lips.
My Grandpa Roark told my husband, after the passing of Jamie's Mother, "It only hurts when you think about it." Simple, straightforward and true, those words.
I suppose that it does only hurt when you think about it. But when there's not a day that goes by that you don't think about her, it hurts every day. I guess it will eventually get easier as time passes, but right now it's hard not to miss her.
In reflection, the responses to the aforementioned blog post led me to understand that the post was one in which I had been working toward for a long time. Because I do feel guilty, not that I was responsible, but that there must have been things, signs that I missed. Perhaps I could have known what to look for, what to do about her health care, which I felt was less than subpar. But in my heart I know that there was nothing to be done. Her death was just what it was, nothing can ever change that, and we were lucky to have her here as long as we did. Even to this day I feel that she is with me both in my heart and in the person that I am. And when I make that perfect pan of cornbread or the perfect pancake batter I can almost taste her hand in my cooking.
On the way back from the hospital--and it's odd now that I can't remember exactly which time it was--if it was when we first found out that Mom was sick or when she had just passed away. But anyway, there wasn't much on the radio so I ended up tuning into NPR. Normally it's not my thing, but after being brought up listening to it on the radio every day of my life, I turn to it when only country music will tune in. On this particular day, it just happened to be bluegrass music, some rendition of an old song, that had the line, "...a sister will do when the mother is gone..." And I remember thinking that, in the cars ahead of us were my sisters. And when I thought of losing my mother I was sure that my sisters would be there for me, even my father and brother, and remaining grandparents. But how could we really carry on without Mom?
I suppose that my greatest fear is that if I don't write this down here, in my journal, somewhere, people may forget what a great person she was. Even the things that we may have complained, as children do, about Mom--her brutal honesty, her moodiness, or her unmistakeable authority over all--I find myself missing those things most of all. And on occaision you just need to hear what an idiot you're being. And Mom would have told you--sometimes without being asked.
It is also hard for me to write, knowing that Dad reads this and that he is the one in all of this who has lost his wife, the mother of his children, and his best friend. I don't want to ever have to feel the feeling that he must feel when he thinks of Mom. But I also know that the longer you live, the more people that you will have to watch die. Why is it that some are just so much harder than others? I thought the death of my Grandma Roark would break my heart. But losing my mother is so much harder. In time, I guess you get used to dead people not being around anymore. Like, oh let's go see Grandma--oh yeah, that's right, she's dead. Okay so Grandpa it is!
The last time I went to visit Dad I accidentally said, as we were preparing to leave, "Okay, let's go to Papa and GG's!" Really enthusiastically in the beginning, with my face crumbling in front of Anna-Lee into one of those oh-shit-I-just-said-the-wrong-thing cringes after I realized what had just escaped my lips.
My Grandpa Roark told my husband, after the passing of Jamie's Mother, "It only hurts when you think about it." Simple, straightforward and true, those words.
I suppose that it does only hurt when you think about it. But when there's not a day that goes by that you don't think about her, it hurts every day. I guess it will eventually get easier as time passes, but right now it's hard not to miss her.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Bound for the Floor -- Local H
This is the "copacetic" song. Copacetic is an adjective meaning very satisfactory. The origin of the word is unknown, according to Merriam-Webster, which also states that it's first use was in 1919.
My Grandpa was born in 1919. His birthday is coming up in April. He'd be really old if he wash't playing rummy in heaven with Mom and Grandma.
Grandma and Grandpa's house is still there for family gatherings. But I remember when we were young and we used to visit them almost every day after school and all the time during the summer. They had a dog named Lassie, who didn't look exactly like the Lassie from the television show, but she was a collie like that one, only cooler. We all loved Lassie and she kept us safe. Especially from snakes. I remember her fervently shaking her head in the back yard to snap the snake's neck, and then she did it pretty much continuously until Grandpa came along and threw it in the field.
It was pretty fun at Grandma and Grandpa's house. We would watch Woody the Woodpecker and eat a variety of sugary snacks like oatmeal creme pies, circus peanuts, and sugar wafers. I also remember that at 70 or so years old Grandpa could put his feet behind his head, climb trees and roofs, and shoot like a real sharpshooter. One of the most amazing stories Grandpa told us, at the urging of our Mother (since we didn't exactly believe her story), was about him and his brothers shooting apples off the top of one another's heads and cigarettes from one another's mouths. Now not only was that some fucking trust, but that was some really good shooting. It was amazing that none of them ever got injured or killed doing such dare-devil shooting.
I guess that helped when Grandpa was in the war. The boat he was on was one of the first to hit the beaches of Normandy--Utah Beach, so I've heard. When my husband remarked that he didn't know if he could do something like that Grandpa just said, "You never know what you can do until you have to." And that was Grandpa. Sometimes a man of few words, but those words were always some kind of wisdom.
My all-time favorite story about Grandpa was when Mom was young and doing dishes in the kitchen. Grandpa came into the house furious and went to fetch a glass or something from the cabinet right next to Mom. He slammed the cabinet shut and it bounced back and hit him in the face, so he hit the cabinet and it hit him in the face again. We all laughed heartily at Mom's telling of the story and asked her if she had laughed too--to which she said absolutely not while it was happening, but as soon as he was gone again she couldn't help but to laugh.
There are many more great stories about Grandpa--and Grandma, but that's for other posts.
My Grandpa was born in 1919. His birthday is coming up in April. He'd be really old if he wash't playing rummy in heaven with Mom and Grandma.
Grandma and Grandpa's house is still there for family gatherings. But I remember when we were young and we used to visit them almost every day after school and all the time during the summer. They had a dog named Lassie, who didn't look exactly like the Lassie from the television show, but she was a collie like that one, only cooler. We all loved Lassie and she kept us safe. Especially from snakes. I remember her fervently shaking her head in the back yard to snap the snake's neck, and then she did it pretty much continuously until Grandpa came along and threw it in the field.
It was pretty fun at Grandma and Grandpa's house. We would watch Woody the Woodpecker and eat a variety of sugary snacks like oatmeal creme pies, circus peanuts, and sugar wafers. I also remember that at 70 or so years old Grandpa could put his feet behind his head, climb trees and roofs, and shoot like a real sharpshooter. One of the most amazing stories Grandpa told us, at the urging of our Mother (since we didn't exactly believe her story), was about him and his brothers shooting apples off the top of one another's heads and cigarettes from one another's mouths. Now not only was that some fucking trust, but that was some really good shooting. It was amazing that none of them ever got injured or killed doing such dare-devil shooting.
I guess that helped when Grandpa was in the war. The boat he was on was one of the first to hit the beaches of Normandy--Utah Beach, so I've heard. When my husband remarked that he didn't know if he could do something like that Grandpa just said, "You never know what you can do until you have to." And that was Grandpa. Sometimes a man of few words, but those words were always some kind of wisdom.
My all-time favorite story about Grandpa was when Mom was young and doing dishes in the kitchen. Grandpa came into the house furious and went to fetch a glass or something from the cabinet right next to Mom. He slammed the cabinet shut and it bounced back and hit him in the face, so he hit the cabinet and it hit him in the face again. We all laughed heartily at Mom's telling of the story and asked her if she had laughed too--to which she said absolutely not while it was happening, but as soon as he was gone again she couldn't help but to laugh.
There are many more great stories about Grandpa--and Grandma, but that's for other posts.
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Scientist -- Coldplay
Did I kill my mother? I know what you're thinking--that cancer killed my mother. But I've had this terrible thought that she might have made it a little longer if I hadn't been there for that drainage procedure (see blogpost "I Would For You -- Jane's Addiction"). When the Doctor called us back in she told us that the cancer was winning the battle, and later we learned that she had some sort of infection in addition to the cancer, possibly from the drainage procedure.
Thinking back I wonder if the unsuccessful drainage procedure that I was present for was the one that gave her the infection, thus speeding up her imminent death. What if it was? And then, thinking this, I believe it could go one of two directions: yes, the infection killed her more quickly, thus ending her suffering OR if she hadn't had the infection how much more time would we have been able to spend with her? The latter, of course, brings with it another bevy of questions. Would a little more time with her been a good thing or a bad thing? Had Mom lived a few days or weeks longer would she have been miserable? Would she have been coherent enough to tell us the things we needed to know? Would we have been focused enough to ask for her wisdom on the important things we would face in life without her?
I know I didn't have any questions when she did ask me if there was anything I wanted to talk about. At that point I was still inside this icy shell of denial, which was only made truly apparent through the constant stress I held internally which I believe caused me to have premature labor contractions months long before Arabella would arrive.
When I discussed my feelings about my mother's death with my doctor she told me she wished she could write me a prescription to have my mother back. I wish she could too, because I really need a Mom.
This loss has crushed my very heart and soul. It has torn my faith asunder, though her words echo through my head, "Don't be mad at God for this." She made me promise, which I did, but it was a broken promise before it even left my lips. I both love and hate God at the same time. I turn to prayers--to Jesus, to God, to the Goddess Mother Earth, to the cosmos, when I feel the need. Krishna would say that love and hate are two different reverberations of the same note within the heart.
I hate that my mother is dead. I hate God, Goddess, cosmos and all for it. I hate the evil people in the world who live while my own mother was torn so shockingly from our family. It might be different if I had someone to blame. I suppose I could blame people who treated her, blame her for neglecting her health, blame myself for the whole
"Oh, you're going to stay for the procedure?"
"Yeah."
thing. I could blame God, I could blame cancer. I could blame God for allowing cancer to exist. But there is no closure there. This is a never-ending thing that haunts me. I'm angry that people, good people, die of cancer every day while rapists, child molesters, and murderers roam our streets.
I want God to smite those evil fuckers in the world. And not just a little smite, a big fat smite for all the evil assholes in the world. In fact, God, I think cancer should be the plague of the evil, not the bane of the good. You should have smote those fuckers, not my Mom, dammit.
"...no one said it was easy..."
Thinking back I wonder if the unsuccessful drainage procedure that I was present for was the one that gave her the infection, thus speeding up her imminent death. What if it was? And then, thinking this, I believe it could go one of two directions: yes, the infection killed her more quickly, thus ending her suffering OR if she hadn't had the infection how much more time would we have been able to spend with her? The latter, of course, brings with it another bevy of questions. Would a little more time with her been a good thing or a bad thing? Had Mom lived a few days or weeks longer would she have been miserable? Would she have been coherent enough to tell us the things we needed to know? Would we have been focused enough to ask for her wisdom on the important things we would face in life without her?
I know I didn't have any questions when she did ask me if there was anything I wanted to talk about. At that point I was still inside this icy shell of denial, which was only made truly apparent through the constant stress I held internally which I believe caused me to have premature labor contractions months long before Arabella would arrive.
When I discussed my feelings about my mother's death with my doctor she told me she wished she could write me a prescription to have my mother back. I wish she could too, because I really need a Mom.
This loss has crushed my very heart and soul. It has torn my faith asunder, though her words echo through my head, "Don't be mad at God for this." She made me promise, which I did, but it was a broken promise before it even left my lips. I both love and hate God at the same time. I turn to prayers--to Jesus, to God, to the Goddess Mother Earth, to the cosmos, when I feel the need. Krishna would say that love and hate are two different reverberations of the same note within the heart.
I hate that my mother is dead. I hate God, Goddess, cosmos and all for it. I hate the evil people in the world who live while my own mother was torn so shockingly from our family. It might be different if I had someone to blame. I suppose I could blame people who treated her, blame her for neglecting her health, blame myself for the whole
"Oh, you're going to stay for the procedure?"
"Yeah."
thing. I could blame God, I could blame cancer. I could blame God for allowing cancer to exist. But there is no closure there. This is a never-ending thing that haunts me. I'm angry that people, good people, die of cancer every day while rapists, child molesters, and murderers roam our streets.
I want God to smite those evil fuckers in the world. And not just a little smite, a big fat smite for all the evil assholes in the world. In fact, God, I think cancer should be the plague of the evil, not the bane of the good. You should have smote those fuckers, not my Mom, dammit.
"...no one said it was easy..."
Friday, March 16, 2012
Cumbersome -- Seven Mary Three
cumbersome- adjective; c. 1535:
1. dialect: burdensome, troublesome
2: unwieldy because of heaviness or bulk
3: slow moving: ponderous
My Advice To Youngsters:
Read the dictionary.
And not just for shits and giggles. Turns out it is a good thing to know the words , their spelling, and their meaning. It also helps on standardized tests like the SAT, the ACT, and the GRE.
When I had a mother she was my personal dictionary and encyclopedia rolled into one. She was many things, as well, but she was certainly an avid reader. Mom had an endless capacity for knowledge and a seemingly endless supply of advice--no matter what the subject. Anna-Lee asks me sometimes what a word means and I always tell her to look it up in the Merriam-Webster paperback that I gave her.
Some of the most precious memories I have of my mother are those times when, seated in the floor in front of the fireplace, our backs to the couch, crowding in to both hear the story and see the book. When we were all able to read we would take turns reading aloud, one chapter at a time. I remember most vividly the story of The Wizard of Oz. We would each read a chapter, showing the illustrations as we went along.
Our mother taught us to read with eloquence and emphasis, a trait that has served me well. It is difficult for me to listen to someone read aloud who mispronounces words, stumbles through the lines, and lacks the eloquence to tie sentences together to form a coherence within the paragraphs.
When we were old enough to read our own books, Dad saw fit to enact the after-dinner reading time in which we would listen to him read books like James Still's River of Earth and Leonard Robert's I Bought Me a Dog. There were times when we were in misery sitting at the table being read to by our father, impatiently waiting for the time when he would close the book and allow us to continue with our own evening plans. But now that we are all grown we read. We read together, especially those things that we find amusing or interesting. Dad gives us all magazine subscriptions to Smithsonian, Highlights (for the children) National Geographic, and Scientific American. We exchange books that we think the others might enjoy. We have become a family of readers. Is that rare? I certainly wish it weren't.
A great burden among American students today is learning to read being able to read aloud with others. I think a love for reading must be established within families and supportive groups, even if they can only spend a few minutes a day on one book, or one chapter per week.
I don't want to lecture; I believe that most people already know that reading is most important. But I've been thinking and I've decided that though we are in a new digital age, we should strive to provide each other, especially children, with the joys of having physical texts. And the most important of those texts to provide is a dictionary with which people can gain a greater understanding of the information they read.
That's why I will close with this bit of motherly advice, from my mother to me, and now to you:
Read the dictionary. It's totally worth it.
1. dialect: burdensome, troublesome
2: unwieldy because of heaviness or bulk
3: slow moving: ponderous
My Advice To Youngsters:
Read the dictionary.
And not just for shits and giggles. Turns out it is a good thing to know the words , their spelling, and their meaning. It also helps on standardized tests like the SAT, the ACT, and the GRE.
When I had a mother she was my personal dictionary and encyclopedia rolled into one. She was many things, as well, but she was certainly an avid reader. Mom had an endless capacity for knowledge and a seemingly endless supply of advice--no matter what the subject. Anna-Lee asks me sometimes what a word means and I always tell her to look it up in the Merriam-Webster paperback that I gave her.
Some of the most precious memories I have of my mother are those times when, seated in the floor in front of the fireplace, our backs to the couch, crowding in to both hear the story and see the book. When we were all able to read we would take turns reading aloud, one chapter at a time. I remember most vividly the story of The Wizard of Oz. We would each read a chapter, showing the illustrations as we went along.
Our mother taught us to read with eloquence and emphasis, a trait that has served me well. It is difficult for me to listen to someone read aloud who mispronounces words, stumbles through the lines, and lacks the eloquence to tie sentences together to form a coherence within the paragraphs.
When we were old enough to read our own books, Dad saw fit to enact the after-dinner reading time in which we would listen to him read books like James Still's River of Earth and Leonard Robert's I Bought Me a Dog. There were times when we were in misery sitting at the table being read to by our father, impatiently waiting for the time when he would close the book and allow us to continue with our own evening plans. But now that we are all grown we read. We read together, especially those things that we find amusing or interesting. Dad gives us all magazine subscriptions to Smithsonian, Highlights (for the children) National Geographic, and Scientific American. We exchange books that we think the others might enjoy. We have become a family of readers. Is that rare? I certainly wish it weren't.
A great burden among American students today is learning to read being able to read aloud with others. I think a love for reading must be established within families and supportive groups, even if they can only spend a few minutes a day on one book, or one chapter per week.
I don't want to lecture; I believe that most people already know that reading is most important. But I've been thinking and I've decided that though we are in a new digital age, we should strive to provide each other, especially children, with the joys of having physical texts. And the most important of those texts to provide is a dictionary with which people can gain a greater understanding of the information they read.
That's why I will close with this bit of motherly advice, from my mother to me, and now to you:
Read the dictionary. It's totally worth it.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Gimme Shelter -- The Rolling Stones
When I listened to this song the other day it made me think, "More washboard!" Of course, that may be because Jamie and I had been watching SNL Best of Will Ferrell. One of my all-time favorite skits on SNL was the one with Will Ferrell and Christopher Walkin, "More Cowbell." Too funny! If you haven't seen this, Google it, and soon enough you'll know, too.
If you are a life-long SNL viewer you already know why I thought, "More Washboard!" And now I can't think about it while listening to "Gimme Shelter" without chuckling to myself at the thought of Mick Jagger playing the washboard very enthusiastically.
The Rolling Stones have, as you know, been around for a while. I remember watching a concert of them on television in my parent's bedroom. Sitting at the foot of the bed we watched Jagger run around the stage as if he were twenty years old and wheeze out the song lyrics as if he were fifty. Of course, this was back in the day when we only had bunny ears and three channels, one of which was PBS, the other a local channel, and the last, a local channel with good programming for which we never got sufficient reception.
No matter what the situation, like Say It Ain't So by Weezer, I will never be able to listen to this song the same way again.
Nor will I be able to listen to Paint It Black the same way after watching Stir of Echoes, but I suppose that's a story for another blog.
If you are a life-long SNL viewer you already know why I thought, "More Washboard!" And now I can't think about it while listening to "Gimme Shelter" without chuckling to myself at the thought of Mick Jagger playing the washboard very enthusiastically.
The Rolling Stones have, as you know, been around for a while. I remember watching a concert of them on television in my parent's bedroom. Sitting at the foot of the bed we watched Jagger run around the stage as if he were twenty years old and wheeze out the song lyrics as if he were fifty. Of course, this was back in the day when we only had bunny ears and three channels, one of which was PBS, the other a local channel, and the last, a local channel with good programming for which we never got sufficient reception.
No matter what the situation, like Say It Ain't So by Weezer, I will never be able to listen to this song the same way again.
Nor will I be able to listen to Paint It Black the same way after watching Stir of Echoes, but I suppose that's a story for another blog.
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