Summer Again

picmonkey on the dock“And talk of poems and prayers and promises and things that we believe in. How sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care.~JD

When you are empty and so set-apart, open your eyes, and soften your heart.

Think of us sitting at the end of a dock, feet dangling in the water, not alone on a rock.

We are young and excited; no sense of alarm, my swishing hips and your muscular arms.

Our senses are heightened and acutely aware of the quaking aspen and pine in the air.

The billowy clouds fluff the blue northern sky; the smell of the earth is ripe and alive.

The lap of the lake swallows up our strong knees, no aches or moans; we’re as wild as we please.

Sweet fragrance of sweat glistens on our summer skin, in the wild of the forest, the water, and the wind.

Something is stirring, sensation and ache. It’s easy to be silly and sleepy and wide awake.

Not yet armored by disappointments and hurt, our hearts gladly open, we tease and we flirt.

The sun on the water mirrors the light in our eyes, and laughter comes easy, we giggle and sigh.

Soft kisses, near misses, come close and then run; we splash and we dunk in the afternoon sun.

We dive and we swim, float at near flank. There’s a chill in the air as we race towards the bank.

We scurry to gather our blankets and loot; flannel shirts, suspenders, blue jeans and boots.

A campfire is built as you wield your fine axe; wild violets, forest lilies grace our table of snacks.

Our poles find perch at the end of our lines. It’s late, but on time, as crickets sing and rhyme.

In the breath of the forest, no one’s right, nothing’s wrong, as evening settles in and the shadows grow long.

Quiet talk at our camp fire of constellations and bears; your fingers entangled in my gossamer hair.

We lie on our backs, hear the cry of a loon, we stare up at the stars and the wax of the moon.

Not a penny to spare, we can’t leave home, get married, buy a house, or backpack and roam.

Weightless and free, no child or great plans; aging ills or more bills, no regrets or political stands.

Nothing binds us, except the love of life, and our fire-lit gaze, sun-kissed hands held tight.

We are both each other’s listener and new best friend. There’s magic in the moment, feeling love with no end.

If I were to ask for a couple of things, in the drab of daily details, routines, and worn rings.

It would be for you to see me as sweetly as then, in need of your smile and a prince among men.

We could take an adventure; make a few stops; walk hand-in-hand as we dally through shops.

Forget that we’re older, return to the woods, no caution or worry, no ‘we can’t’ or ‘we should.’

But regardless of everything, more than anything, my old friend, I’d ask you to bring back the summer again.

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59 and Holding…

best3…my bladder. The railing. My tongue!

I never liked the saying, “39 and holding.” I felt it was just one more slap in the face of older women and a high five to the glorification of youth. We ought to be proud we got this far in life. We are the wise women of the world even if we are pretty much ignored.

The reality is that no matter how many inspirational posters we all share of crazy older women in big red hats and gray-haired grandmas driving around in convertibles while sporting oversized sunglasses with their laughing gal pals, ‘the world’ doesn’t see us, nor think of us as glamorous, or viable, or even intelligent. Unless, of course, you’re Christie Brinkley and your whole life has been spent on the profitability of looking beautiful. Even 60-something Cindy Joseph, the new spokeswoman for ‘older women’ in the glam world, has the classic square-cut jaw and the body of a highly maintained young woman. You can put gray hair on it and sprinkle it with a few cute dimpled wrinkles, but a model is still a model; not the norm. Normal women in their 60s are pretty much invisible.

Even the most educated and accomplished women are looked over to spy the bulbous asses of empty-headed babes. If you’re an intellectual ‘older’ woman, you’re on a hag list or not acknowledge at all. You may have some buying or political power and the luxury of a big veranda overlooking the ocean, but words out of the luscious plump lips of a young mouth still draw more attention, regardless of how idiotic they are. The rest of us, at best, are someone’s loving grandma or a doer of good deeds. Loving and being loved is enough for most of us.

Many people would say, “Hey, get over it! You’ve had your moment in the sun; quietly move out of the way, lady. It’s not about ‘you’ anymore.” Of which I would generally agree. It’s hard work to keep up with perfect celebrities who still look airbrushed and sexy, or the young women filtering into your hard-earned career in their yoga pants and digital language. I don’t have the energy to compete with that ridiculousness.

But, it’s something else we grapple with, something more elusive that we try to hold on to: TIME.

Beauty may be fleeting, but TIME moves as swift as freakin’ flood waters! One minute you’re driving down the road, the wind in your hair with your skinning arms glistening in the sun, your teeth white as pearls, your face still distinguishable from your neck, listening to America’s ‘Ventura Highway …” feeling badass and beautiful. Then you change the station and you can’t understand the music, you can’t read the road signs without your tri-focal lenses on. Someone is talking to your through your car radio and you sound like your grandma as you try to figure out how to talk to the dashboard; you just want everything to slow down. One day it IS all about you, and then the next the flood waters of time sweep you into a weird kind of warped no-man’s land where you don’t belong anymore.

It takes tenacity to not be drown-out!

But ‘time’ stops for no woman. It doesn’t even slow down. In fact, everything changes faster and faster as the years go by, and if you’re on top of things, one can do okay navigating through those swift flood waters, for awhile. It helps to have kids. They teach you things and tell you to change your clothes when ‘you look old and frumpy, mom.’ It helps to remain a part of the work and social world. It keeps one sharp and alert, especially as everything just keeps getting more and more unnecessarily competitive. It helps, but it won’t save you. “Oldness” creeps up on you in the middle of the night when you turn and your back goes out or when you can’t seem to get up that long flight of stairs.

It robs you of the ‘right’ words, in a kind of half-joking way.

The other day I was driving with my daughter behind a very slow vehicle, and I yelled at the car in front of us, “Hellloooo, its 65 degrees, dumbass!” Apparently, my old wires got tangled and I blurted out the wrong term of measurement! It was great for a good laugh. We’re still laughing about that, but I’m not so sure it’s funny. It’s scary. What will I say next?

With time goes flexibility, upper body strength, mental sharpness, sex drive and performance. Your bladder weakens, your internal organs start messing with you, “Heartburn, again? What did you eat, honey?” Every day it’s something else…a new wrinkle, hair in places one never thought hair would grow, and diagnoses of syndromes you’ve never even heard about before you got old!

Of course, one does the best they can to keep living! Very few of us just want to roll over and die, though at the worst of times, like when you’re coughing incessantly and pissing yourself at the same time, I’m sure it seems like a reasonable option. Just take me now, God.

As a newborn with my mama

As a newborn with my mama

I loved talking to my mother. She was as funny as Hell about these things, though I know how much she suffered on many levels. She taught me stuff, though, important ways to look at all of these cruel changes. Mostly, she taught me to savor the present moment, to take it all in, to run while I could still run and ‘doll myself up’ as long as my lipstick wasn’t bleeding into the wrinkles around my lips.

The changes of getting older are not really teachable, though. It’s like telling a man what it’s like to bear a child or a civilian what it’s like to crawl through the jungles of Vietnam. Until one does it, whatever it is, they’ll never really know.

I usually take stock of my life and make resolutions on my birthday, much like one does on New Year’s Eve. Tonight I found myself making a list of things, dreams and plans that I know will never happen in the years I have left. Kind of an acceptance speech on reality.

Big dreams like buying a vintage house; won’t happen. Living in a small town again; can’t move without the hubby and he’s not budging. Thick voluminous hair; it’s only getting thinner. A perfect figure; it never has been, well except that one year in 1986. I was HOT that year! World travel, a move back up north, wild nights of sensuous romantic love; nope, nope, and nope (damn!).

Circumstances, health, finances, and, yes, aging, have all pretty much closed down some roads.

But what I do have isn’t so bad. I’ve worked hard so I can live more freely on my modest pension. The kids are in the beginnings of their marriages, so grandchildren are a reasonable expectation. I can still walk, talk, sing (well, not as good as I used to), joke around, read and drive (with the right corrective lenses), and generally connect with others. If not, I’ve learned how to ‘nod and smile.’ Thanks mom.

I generally get along with my husband of almost 30 years. We’re the same ages as Aunt Bea and Floyd the barber on the original “The Andy Griffith Show,” for God’s sakes! He (my husband, not Floyd) opens my jars and keeps me in conversation. We don’t always see eye-to-eye on politics and movies. He doesn’t like loud music; I can’t hear music unless it’s loud. He likes dark rooms; I can’t function without natural light. He grumbles and gets pissy when he’s mad; I just disappear for a few hours. We both talk to our pets like they’re children and love being around our real children, so it all works out. We share some laughs, some affection, enough to not give up on each other or plot the other’s death.

A long marriage, like aging, just isn’t something people can tell you about until you’ve lived it. Unless one wants to be alone or angry their whole life, you make it work and muddle through together. There’s a lot of muddling.

Time keeps racing along, even as we muddle and scramble to keep things the same. One day you realize no one wants your ‘highly experienced’ expertise at work anymore. You’ll want to have dinner with your kid, and he’ll be leaving to have dinner with someone else. Few people will want to hear your precious memories (again?), and the face looking back at you in the mirror may become unrecognizable.

Our bodies start to give out, even as we do our yoga, water aerobic, and daily walks. You notice a spot where there wasn’t one, you can see the tracks of your veins through your thinning skin, your lower arms are flapping more than before, you can’t crap; it happens.

You’ll survive, of course; God willing you’ll thrive. But, ‘holding on’ isn’t an option. You just have to live the Hell out of the moment you’re in. There’s no getting anything back; time marches on.

My mother was a great example of someone who didn’t let time or aging get in her way. Wherever her

Me and my mom in the 1960s

Me and my mom in the 1960s

children and grandchildren lived, she got there, even if she had to wear Depends, ride through the airport terminal in a wheelchair, pack a week’s worth of medications (my God that woman had pills), a patch over one eye, a bum leg, whatever, she went!

One time she was driving her little car along a country road up north, and she looked like a 12 year old kid with a mop head of gray hair and a lead foot, hugging the steering wheel with crazed determination on her face. I thought, “Who the Hell are you? You’re not my mother!” She was hilariously bold. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was skillfully navigating those flood waters of change, adapting, morphing, whether she wanted to or not, into a survivor of time.

Mom in her 80s

Mom in her 80s

As for me, well I still have a few more doable dreams in me. I can still look presentable, though more Aunt Bea-ish than like Christie Brinkley. It’s important to me, though; it’s significant to keep trying. Once one doesn’t care, doesn’t try, is convinced ‘no one cares what they look like,’ or ‘no one is listening,’ or they ‘think’ they can’t do something because they are old, then they are definitely ‘old.’

At 59 that’s my birthday wish to myself, to courageous navigate the flood waters of change….even if I have to learn some new fandangle app, or I use the wrong words here and there. There’s no ‘holding;’ there’s just making the most of the moment. No crazy red hat that proclaims, “I’m a wild and wise woman” or super model’s lip balm is going to make a difference or stop the hands of time. One just has to stay the uncertain course of rocks and waves, even the still lonely waters, until there are no more birthdays left to say,

“Hey, I’m still here. Let’s eat cake!”Cindy's bday 1962

One Perfect Day at the State Fair

“I wanted the music to play on forever. Have I stayed too long at the fair?
I wanted the clowns to be constantly clever. Have I stayed too long at the fair?”

The Minnesota State Fair, courtesy of Minnesotafarmguide.jpg

The Minnesota State Fair, courtesy of Minnesotafarmguide.jpg

Every now and then a perfect day comes along in a person’s life. I’ve had a few of those, I’m happy to say, but one seems to stand out more than others. Perhaps it was due to the spirit of hopefulness, the time of the season, the natural and playful elements all aligned and in-harmony, or maybe it was because of our new beginning after but another of life’s struggles. We were at the fair, crafted in a fairy-tale kind of American spirit: lights, balloons, streamers, music, with carnival food wafting through the air, and we were in-love. I’m sure that was an essential part of the moment.

“My state fair is the best state fair…’ was the featured song on my internal soundtrack, as my husband and I strolled through the archway of the Minnesota State Fair one rainy day in 1989. The soft summer showers made for a light crowd, punctuated by black umbrellas and yellow slickers, people rushing to take cover in sudden downpours and relaxed in the intermittent rainbows when the rain would cease. The lack of patrons created an easy walk along the midway and into the barns, with no long lines for funnel cakes or in the way of the beeline to the bathroom. With a baby in the stroller and no particular agenda in mind, the light crowd and gentle rain set the scene for ease and immersion into the carnival scene. We couldn’t have been happier.

Married only two years, our little girl not yet independent and demanding; tension was low, neediness was light, everything seemed magical and care-free. We had just moved out to our small farm west of Minneapolis, so our interests in blue ribbon preserves, small farm animals, sheep and wool products, and farming equipment was genuine and passionate; it drove us with eagerness to each of the barns in wonderment and a sense of ownership. Both from different neighboring state, this was now OUR state, our fair, our farm life and family, and we felt like we belonged.

Not unlike others who have gone off to a state fair, I’m sure, who experienced the same kind of thrill and amusement with the unique aromas and offerings that only a state fair can offer, yet this time is was different. Love was still a fresh new second chance, our baby an unexpected blessing, and my dream of living in rural American on Laura Ingalls’ prairie was literally on our doorstep. We seemed to be in want for nothing and awash with gratitude.

I recall the simple joy of picking out our favorite flavors from the rows of carnival colored, salt-water taffy, watching our daughter play with the fuzzy baby chicks and her talking endlessly in her Minnie Mouse voice, as she was an early talker and was in full sentences before the age of two. We sat at checkered-clothed tables with mouthfuls of amazement at the rich taste of Minnesota sweet corn smothered in butter that dripped down our chins, and joined in our little girl’s thrill at watching the massive hoofs of the work horses clump by, the shining brass of the band, and pom-pom glitz of the cheer leaders marching by in parade. These were simple things, joys we’ve all experienced at times in our lives, but on THIS day the joy seemed complete, unfettered by money questions, a fussy baby, or the tension of a love grown cold.

There is something illuminating about a rainy day, particularly in the north. The greens were rich, the whites glowing, the shadows sentimental in an old-fashion, tin-type way. The freshness of the moist rich soil, even the smell of animals, cowhide, and the leather from saddled horses seemed to penetrate my senses creating romantic illusions of a simpler time. There was even a strolling barbershop quartet singing the old vaudeville songs, which made me a bit teary-eyed thinking of my father hundreds of miles away. “Meet Me in St. Louie, Louie; meet me at the fair…” I probably would have called him, if we had cell phones then, but we didn’t nor did we think to take pictures.

Walking up to the carousel, alive with music box melodies and prettily painted horses, I could almost hear Gordon McCrae singing his “Soliloquy’ from the 1956s musical ‘Carousel’ ….”My little girl, pink and white as peaches and cream can be….” And on the ride, the only one we rode, holding on to my agreeable baby as she looked around in wonder, I was deliriously happy, the swirling colors and lights creating a dream-like state of mind that I just didn’t want to wake from. That perfect day seemed to make up for all the hard-hearted parts of life, the disappointments and bad decisions; I felt like I had made it to my perfect world, I guess; all was good and promising.

We stayed the whole day, from the morning’s parade until the closing hours. Not one baby fit, no grouchy husband, no physical discomfort or conflicts; we were in the prime of our lives on the precipice of everything we both seemed to want. The fair seemed to capture and encapsulate our happiness.

As the night waned into closed exhibits and the empty grease vats of vendors closing up shop, big electrical lights and carnival rides began to shut off their high volts of electricity that gave them life, leaving only a sizzling hum lingering in the air. Along the quiet walk from the park even the night birds joyfully peeped and sang in the shadowy branches of the trees that lined the walkway. A clown happened by with a full load of colorful balloons. We wanted to buy one as we were walking out of the fair grounds, and taking our dollar, the painted smile of that gentle stranger handed us the whole bundle, saying they would just be thrown away anyway. Could we have had a more romantic ending to a perfect state fair day? We felt charmed and full of family love, strolling arm-in-arm through the almost empty parking lot through puddles with our giggling child, with at least two dozen balloons attached to her stroller.

I had a dream that night, long after the baby was deep in slumber from her no-nap day, my husband snoring contently as balloons floated around our farm house in the shadows. I dreamt that my daughter was lifted out of the stroller holding on to that bundle of balloons, and like Curious George she left us on the ground scrambling, powerless to help her, and screaming in agony and fear as she floated further and further away over the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. She was laughing with pure joy, her little fingers waving and Minnie Mouse voice calling, ‘Bye bye, mama,’ as I was sobbing in pure grief. I woke up screaming before she ever came back, and I spent the rest of the night looking at her sound asleep in her crib, the moon light shining upon her through the tips of the Norwegian Pines that stood guard around our house like soldiers of love. The emotional dread of that dream stuck with me just as much as the simple beauty of that perfect day, never really scarring it, but perhaps reminding me that, in time, everything changes and floats away even in joyful bliss.

One perfect day doesn’t a marriage make. We’ve had our share of heartbreak and sorrow, disappointments and hateful arguments. We had to sell the farm after a company lay-off and ended up moving to Texas on my daughter’s fourth birthday. It was a struggle and loss that left me a little angry and jaded for many years, as I had to settle for life in an urban suburb with the daily grind of traffic, demanding people, with so little of nature and the beauty of the four seasons to enrich our lives.

Though we enjoyed our share of country fairs in smaller towns over the years with our kids, year after year I saw the advertisement for the Texas State Fair with ‘Big Tex,’ a 55-foot-tall statue and icon of Texas overseeing the fair. And year after year I suggested we go, pack up the kids, get a room, and take the long drive from San Antonio to Dallas to relive, perhaps, the thrill of our once perfect day at the Minnesota State Fair.

My husband never wanted to go, and I guess I never had enough desire to push the issue. I knew the weather, for one thing, would not be nearly as pleasant; we’d be sweltering in the heat. The kids, all seven-years apart, would all want to go in their own directions, and we’d spend more time worried about where they were than enjoying the simple things we had years ago. Maybe subconsciously we didn’t want to ruin what already was, a perfect day at a state fair. In 2012, when the 60-year-old ‘Big Tex’ caught on fire and quickly burned to a crisp, I was, strangely saddened. I remember feeling like we missed our chance to enjoy the Texas State Fair when our kids were little. We lost out on seeing that little piece of history, too, and at feeling ‘young’ and hopeful again.

Life is a lot like a fair, don’t you think? In the iconic movie, ‘Parenthood,’ at the end of the film, the grandmother offered some wise advice through metaphor, suggesting that life is like a merry-go-round or a roller coaster, and we have the choice to ride and enjoy either, to make our lives as daring or as predictable as we want. I found that life is a little of both, some years are as constant and monotonous as a circle, spinning around-and-around with the same laughing horses, colors, and songs. There is safety and security in those moments. At other times, we willingly or not ride the roller coaster, feeling the thrill of the drop and climb, the fear of the unknown, and the anxiety of danger on the edge that makes us, in a weird sadistic way, feel more alive.

Traditional fair foods like cheese curds and corndogs, and the homespun goodness of farm-ladies’ quilts on display, the sexiness of white-shirted, rugged cowboys at the rodeo arena, the wholesome sweetness of FFA girls with their little lambs, the masquerade of clowns, the fixed games with the carnies that cheat you out of money, crowded midways, bright lights and long shadows on the dark path to the port-a-potties; all of the carnival scene mimics life. Wild rides or not, it can be a perfect life or one that falls flat with disappointments and a painfully silent drive home.

I read in the news that the newly constructed ‘Big Tex’ will once again grace the 2015 Texas State Fair this

The Texas State Fair

The Texas State Fair

week, which just happens to fall on our wedding anniversary. Maybe we’ll go… just the two of us. We’ll get a bag of salt water taffy, visit the barns and peruse the shelves of preserves and blue ribbon pies, and maybe even take a ride on the old familiar merry-go-round. I think we’ve had enough of the roller-coaster for one life. We’ll wax nostalgic for our lost farm and our babies who have floated away to big cities and other loves, and their own perfect days.

We may even reflect on that soft, rainy day 26 years ago at the Minnesota State Fair as we stroll along the sticky path ways and hide our sensitive, aging eyes from the blinding sun, and how we’ll always remember it. For it was a perfect day in every way; a delightful, sweet memory of our beginning as we celebrate 28 years of marriage, gray at the temples, sagging in all the once pretty parts, and tired from life’s twists and turns, but remarkably, like those carnies’ games of chance, still together along the midway of this carnival called Life.  Maybe we’ll even buy a couple of balloons for old-time sake.

The merry-go-round is beginning to taunt now
Have I stayed too long at the fair?
The music has stopped and the children must go now
Have I stayed too long at the fair?”

Just An Ordinary Day, Sweetie-pie…

Some days, I just want to talk to my mother.

Not for any particular reason, but like before she was gone when we would just chat about everything and everyone and the real meaning, irony, truth, and humor that was under the surface of small talk, would just work its way out like the soreness out of a tired, overused muscle. Missing her is normal, I know. I’m not sad or angry, feeling needy or anything out of the ordinary. I guess that’s the point. My ordinary self, misses the ordinary conversations with my ordinary mom, in an extraordinary way, particularly today.

We develop all kinds of bonds in the course of a life time, some dramatic enough for a page-turning novel, some secret enough to speak of only in whispers and dreams, some drab enough to almost go unnoticed, and some angry enough to never utter a final goodbye or word of forgiveness. But the bond I had with my mother is irreplaceable, and I can only rely on memories of what she used to say, how she used to leave me questioning, inspired, and laughing. She always left me with just enough gumption to move me passed the moment and more able to carry on. I think that’s it. The same woman that could make me cry like a baby, piss and moan like a rolling-eyed teenager, and fire me up like a warrior against injustice, could also make me laugh ‘till I peed my pants. We had more and more of the latter in the last years of her life, both the peeing and laughter.

There is no remedy for the loss of a mother. It’s sort of like the loss of elasticity in the skin. You can replenish the collagen, well sort of, with a multitude of expensive creams and wonder-products, or go all the way to the point of surgically stretching those sags and wrinkles into a plastic duck face, but nothing really replaces the skin of youth. It’s gone.

When mother is gone, so is the one person that knew everything about you, things you didn’t even remember about yourself. That may not be the case with everyone, but that is the truth of my relationship with my mother. She held my secrets, hopes, desires, sadness and failures, joys and moments of triumph in her unconditional mother’s love and understanding; my complete, complicated history went with her to the grave. Where does a daughter go from there?

My husband has been up since early this morning doing his (well-trained since his 1960s youth) Saturday morning cleaning. Humming, banging things, running the vacuum cleaner, scrubbing sinks like a perky bride in her newly won home. Christ! I just want to smack him upside the head! After a long week of averaging twelve hours of work a day, I can hardly get my tired legs to carry me up the stairs, and he wants to play Ozzie and Harriet! His energy level is draining the last drop of life out of my fading spirit.

My mother would say to give him a piece of my mind; that he should be quiet and let me sleep, but of course she’d say that in a much more sarcastic and sharp-edged tongue. She was ‘a clever wife,’ something she told me I lacked. If I say anything, in my ‘could-you-please-consider-my-feelings-right-now-dear, kind of way,’ I’d have an angry man on my hands, who’d throw in the towel (so to speak), and pout and grumble obscenities and curses at me in the yard as he stares at the back fence wondering what he did wrong to deserve such a wife! She’d say; he doesn’t deserve me, but again in words that would cut his throat. He seemed to like that about her. In fact, they seemed to be made of the same cloth, and I realized years ago that I married my mother. Not sure I really wanted to do that because, well, he’s not my mother, nor is my daughter, my son, or my best friend. No one other than one’s ‘mother’ can make-up that unique, intimate relationship that started at the taking of one’s first breath, and lasted through the gentle years, agonized through the rough years, hoped through the leaving years, and rekindled in the final years. It’s a long stretch of life that only one’s mother understands and can endure with a constant, unwavering love.

Just talking to my mom this morning would have let my steam out, got me laughing, stirred up my energy and maybe even given me a bit of old-fashion ‘Saturday morning cleaning’ zest! She certainly had her share of that and would have reminded me of it.

But the mother void is deep and hollow; there is no healing waters left for dipping. ‘Sometimes I feel like a motherless child….” In fact, I am.

I just don’t like it. Of which she would reply, “Well, that’s just too damn bad, kiddo. Go do a load of laundry. The smell of the fresh clean clothes will make you feel better. And give your ‘little old bride’ a long grocery list and send him to the store. Then grab a nap.” Simple, ordinary advice on an ordinary topic, something I might even say to my own daughter.

But, I’d like to hear it from my mother in her own ordinary voice, with the added, “I love you, sweetie-pie. Everything will be okay.”

cupcakes croppedThe last time my mother visited my home we were readying for my son’s graduation party. She was getting on my last nerve, asking for a dust cloth to dust my shelves, “Why do you keep so many books?” …looking for the broom, begging at every turn for something to do to help. I finally gave her something to do which, I admit with regret, at the time I really didn’t care about. I just wanted to keep her busy and out of my way. I asked her to put some candies, a mini-Reese’s peanut butter cup and a small square of a Hershey’s bar, together to make a graduation cap that was to be perched on top of the cupcakes. It was something I had decided not to do in the last minutes, but since she wouldn’t leave me alone to attend to my all-important, party flair work, I sat her down with that task.

I can still see her now, her frail bend body with a mess of gray hair gone wildly past the days of her prim, put-together style, intensely, carefully putting those little caps together, like it was the most important part of my party statement. Many times she asked for confirmation, “Am I doing this right? Do they look okay?” I’d swing by with a pat and a casual, “Yes, mother, they’re fine. You’re doing great!” And she did do a great job, making something that initially meant so little into something precious and permanently etched in my now ‘mother-less’ mind.

Oh, mama, I’m so sorry.

I would do anything to have her back in my kitchen again, nagging or fussy, talking or laughing or anything; it wouldn’t matter what. But, I would stop and BE with her, recognizing that she was just trying to be a part of my life no matter what I was doing, and be wise enough to know that those would be fleeting moments not to be recaptured and relived.

Such things we take for granted when we have them and suffer without a cure when they are gone. But, wemom at tay graduation move forward in the busyness of life …with maybe a little less gumption and a messier house, and as the years pass by only a faint hint of a mother’s voice reminding us that we are ‘sweetie-pies’ and that “everything will be okay.”

And, of course, it will be…on this and every ordinary day, because of my extraordinary mother who left me with just enough of her spunky-self to carry on without her. Maybe by the time I’m sat down to make little useless candy decorations, I’ll finally be ‘the clever wife’ she hoped I would eventually become.

Meanwhile, Harriet is back from the grocery store, “So much for that nap, mom. I’ll call you later, Love you, bye… forever.”