Been limping along with some computer problems lately. Even have a fix it ticket from Apple. The shipping box is sitting on the dining room table waiting for me to take some action. But parting with Mac for a week or more is (mentally) akin to parting with a limb. No, no–make that an organ. A vital organ. Like my brain.
It’s worse than when the kids left home. Then again, it was them or me by that point.
I’ve been able to cajole Mac along despite the infirmities but tonight she would not read the SD card. WOULD NOT. No matter how many times I jiggled that sucker. It could be I just need a new SD card. I’ll pick one up tomorrow and give that a try.
But there’s no photos tonight. You will just have to use your imagination. They were lovely. The best I ever took. Really. Award winning food shots if I do say so myself. You’ll have to take my word on this since, well, I can’t show them to show you.
The first was a heaping pan of beauteous chopped greens. Collard. Mustard. Turnip. Raw and glistening. Beautiful emerald green greens.
They were my dinner, or part of it. I really wanted potato chips. Just potato chips, nothing else. I deserved them after working out. And I was eating alone tonight so I could have whatever I wanted. But the greens were there and needed to be eaten.
The second was rather artsy. Greens peaking out through steam as it wafted above the pan. Like summer fields in the mist. Oh my. That was a rather poetic description. Maybe I don’t need photos.
The third was quite colorful. A deep orange yam surrounded by wilted greens on a gold colored plate. A few slivers of pale yellow butter. Flecks of garlic. Quite nice. A fork arranged artfully to the side.
And the fourth photo? The potato chips I had for dessert.
Yesterday I climbed into the attic and threw stuff down through the trap door. Christmas stuff. Garlands. Bags o’seasonal treasures. If it was breakable then I carried it halfway down the ladder (the steep-narrow-shouldn’t-climb-this-thing-with-your-hands-full ladder) before tossing it onto my son’s old bed. Bouncing is good. Shattering is not.
So now, twenty-four plus hours later, most of it’s still on the floor of my son’s old room. Or on his bed. Everything except…ta ta…drumroll please–the lights!
Because if nothing else happens this Christmas, having a few lights up makes me happy. Very happy. So happy I could stop right there. But I won’t because we’ve got a two year old coming.
Toddler+Christmas=BLING.
Last year, in a moment of absolute freakin’ BRILLIANCE, I carefully put each strand of lights in it’s very own bag as soon as I took it down. It’s own special bag with a label. A label that said where it was supposed to go. Front windows. Back Windows. Tree.
Here’s the dining room without lights.
Boring. Positively spartan. Come January I’ll be eager to return to the simplicity. But now, see what a difference a couple strands of icicle lights makes.
Ohhhhhhhhhh…. And now, the same before and after in the living room.
Before. Complete with exercycle and floor pillow jumble on the window seat.
After. All the stuff stuff will go away. The tree will be to the right. But it’s a start.
And then there’s the reflections.
Ahhh…
And now I’ll leave you with the song that’s been bouncing around in my head all day. My go-to Christmas decorating song.
Don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll embed another one in your head. But not until this one becomes hardwired in your brain cells.
The traffic was backed up all the way from the freeway exit ramp. At first I thought there had been an accident. And then, as we slowly crept up the road, I saw the blinkers come on. One after another waiting patiently for the left turn.
We were all going to the same place.
The parking lot was full. And so was the church. I thought it was standing room only until an usher pointed me to the choir loft. It was empty except for a black and red walker.
Just like Mama’s.
I didn’t want to sit there.
And then I noticed an empty seat, one in from the aisle. I asked if it was taken and the woman sitting next to it said no. So I sat down beside her. Looked around. There were two overhead screens with text and graphics. Up front, where the altar would be, was a bank of candles. Hundreds of them. Three hundred and sixty-three to be exact.
The program was a single piece of paper folded in half. Inside were the names. Three hundred and sixty-three. Divided into months. I found Edith Lobb under April. The month Mama was born, and, ninety-five years eleven months one week and six days later, the month she died.
The choir loft began filling up. I caught the eye of the woman sitting next to me. We began to talk. It wasn’t the usual passing the time of day small talk between strangers. This was a slow, hesitant dance of conversation. We were strangers to one another and yet we knew we had a profound experience in common–the death of a loved one within the past year.
As did everyone else in the hall.
Hello. How you doin’? was too trite and meaningless under the circumstances.
When. Who. How long has it been. Do you need a tissue was more like it.
I didn’t want to be there and yet, when the invitation came in the mail I knew I had to go. Because Hospice had been there for us when we most needed it. And this event, a reading of the names of all those under hospice care who died within the last year–this event was a way for me to honor the people of Hospice as much as it was to honor my mother.
I recognized some of the speakers, the readers of the names. The social worker who had come to the house. One of the nurses. The spiritual advisor who had been as concerned about me as he had been about Mama.
The music was exquisite. A haunting flute solo. Later some beautiful vocals accompanied by acoustic guitar.
And finally a benediction by the minister. Statement. Response. I don’t recall his exact words but our response was, “We release you.” Over and over. “We release you.” I thought of balloons. Of doves. Of souls tied down by human grief being released, flying free.
In the end, while we were waiting to receive our candles, my neighbor turned to me. “Does it ever get any easier,” she asked. Her loss was recent and double that of mine, two family members within weeks of one another. Within weeks of this evening. Mourning’s early days when life is raw and everything hurts.
I assured her that despite what others had told her, it does get better. That eventually she’d have more good days than bad. And one day she would wake up and realize she was okay. That life goes on and it was good.
And then I told her how Mama’s death had created a rebirth in me. After years of caregiving, especially the intense care required at the end, I was now free to blossom with my own life. My words struck a chord, I could see it in her eyes as she leaned forward, soaking up what I had to say. For the first time that night I saw her smile, a flicker of hope lighting up her face as she nodded her head. Yes, yes.
YES! When the grief clears life is still there. And it is good.
In the office…frowned upon. Verboten. Disrupts the workplace. Makes everyone else want some.
Like these two. I caught them at it the other day. On the printing press, no less. Just look at ’em. This is a monsterous–MONSTEROUS, violation of the employee handbook. Look it up. It’s in there under ‘Conduct’: Thou shalt not grope or take physical pleasure from fellow employees on company time.
Because it makes everyone STOP WHAT THEY’RE DOING to take pictures. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.
This is what they’ll be reduced to if they get caught by admin.
They could end up like Michael and Holly. Oh nooooooooooo….
This fella showed up on my doorstep the other day. Well, practically. He was in the driveway, posing. The photos were taken through the dining room window. And the screen. So if they’re a little fuzzy, well, that’s just the way it is.
Never was much for washing windows.
Look at him. Bold as you please. Absolutely no fear. Captain of the football team. Mr. I’m-So-Cool. This morning he sauntered alongside the truck as I was adjusting my seat belt. Sauntered like he hadn’t a care in the world. Practically brushing up against the side of the truck. I’m surprised his antlers didn’t knock the mirror askew. Seriously, I could’ve reached out and touched him…if I was stupid.
Because this is the time of the year bucks go bad. I’ve seen them going at it like something from Animal Planet. I’ve had to seek refuge among the horses as lusty deer boys duked it out between the barn and the house. Crazy bonkers absolutely insane. Snorting. Huffing. Banging heads. Going after each other like a couple Marines in a barfight insane.
So I keep my distance. Admire them from afar. Don’t want to be labeled with the code my vet uses when dogs and deer mingle. She calls it GBB, Gored by Bambi.
