Happy dreaming

One of mom's pieces of china.
Nippon from the 1910s as near as I can tell.

Ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of having my own table to set. My own friends and family seated in my own home. When I was young, I stared into my mother's china cabinet all the time looking at her beautiful china and crystal. 

Mom wasn't into putting out the best china. We used everyday dishes all the time and, though I often prodded her, she would never reach into that cabinet and take out the shiny gems inside for us to use.

She told me some stories about where the magnificent (to me) pieces came from. Or at least what she she believed to be true about them. There were the colored Swedish crystal wine glasses, the dainty etched goblets, the gold-rimmed china. All passed down to her by her mother or mother-in-law.

My seat at the dining room table—used only on special holidays and occasions— faced the dining room cabinet. I would find myself drawn to the beauty that it held. I always hoped that someday, when I was older, mom would pass down those things I loved to me. 

We talked about it once and she said that I could have them any time I wanted them. I told her that as long as she was on the planet, they were hers to do what she wished with them.

And then, two years ago, she died.

The chapter I am writing now in my life story is one of sifting through things of value. But not what the owners considered valuable. Just what I and my siblings do. It seems disrespectful. Throwing out and donating items that they kept. Not ones to keep much of anything, it speaks even louder for what they did save.

My parents' house should have a purchase and sales agreement signed on it in the next few days. It was time today to start taking the items home that I want to keep.

I'm not a particularly sentimental person around material things. People are surprised to learn that I don't find old pictures particularly valuable. Oh, I'll look at them and remember, but I find no need to keep them. My pictures are all in my head. Safe for as long as my memory lasts. 

Today when I was carefully packing the china and crystal I've admired for so long, I remembered all the times I dreamed of having them for my own. And later as I cleared out a space in my own small china cabinet to put these jewels, I was reminded of a scene from The Quiet Man.

John Wayne had just secured the money owed to his new wife played by Maureen O'Hara. Money held back out of spite by her pugnacious brother and ward. When Wayne returns triumphantly to tell her that he got the money, she asked about her "things" that were also part of her dowry. The spinet, the dining table, the pewter and glass. 

He didn't understand why it mattered to her. He'd buy her all new things. She responded in tears, "There's 300 years of happy dreaming in those things!"

Years of happy dreaming was what today was about. Not clearing out a house or grieving my mom. I look at those "things" now, shining in my cabinet, and I feel the force of the world turning. Year by year, generation by generation. I look forward to my little niece growing up asking about those same pieces of china that I love so much.

I'll tell her the stories my mother told me. I'll tell her that I dreamed of sharing a meal with family and friends with that china and crystal—and my guests—sparkling about me. 

When my years come to an end and it's time for the next generation to carry on the traditions, I will be part of the story that my niece tells when she's asked about the "things" in the china cabinet. And somewhere, four generations of happy dreamers will be smiling.

A kind and generous man

The world lost a kind heart last night. Paul Schmidt and I were on the founding board of directors for Springer Spaniel Rescue for years. We didn't always agree on direction but that was mainly because he wanted to save every dog and I knew that wasn't possible. He sure tried to talk me into it, though, God bless him.

Two years ago there was a tribute to him that I could not attend and I was asked to write a little something that would be shared with Paul during the event. In honor of Paul and the great work he did, I'd like to share it with you. 

God speed, Paul. And may you be covered in Springer kisses as I write this post.

When I think of Paul, I think of him with a Springer on his lap, one at his feet, and another having his belly rubbed. Paul's love for all animals shines through in every interaction where fur is involved.

All of the Springers rescued over the years are Paul's dogs. He makes no differentiation between those who live permanently in his home, and those whose homes were found through Rescue. I've seen his heart broken when one of the Springers he's worked so hard to help has passed. But I've also seen many times when his eyes light up like stars on a clear night when he talks about the ones that made it.

His devotion to NEESSR has been evident from the first board meeting we held in 2002. We were on our way to becoming an official non-profit and we were all so excited for the future. Paul stepped up to be an officer and continued to serve in whatever role the organization needed from that moment on.

Paul's enthusiasm for and dedication to the emotionally exhausting work that is Rescue extended beyond work with animals. Paul didn't just rescue dogs, he rescued people too. His unselfishness and generosity to help a long-time Rescue volunteer when she had nowhere else to turn was and is one of the greatest acts of kindness that he performed as part of Rescue.

Paul, I wish for you many more years of a happy and healthy life. You've earned every day of it. But when the time comes, as it does for us all, know that there will be a mob of wagging tails and smiling Springer faces to greet you at the bridge. And they will thank you, as I am now, for your work of love.

Memorial Day remembrance

When I was young, I used to go along with my mom to buy plants for the graves for Memorial Day. She’d pick up plants for everyone who couldn’t drive including her parents and her sister Muriel.

She’d drive all over the city of Lowell looking for just the right flowers. They were always geraniums. Always. She said that they were heartier than most flowers and didn’t need a lot of water.

We’d pick up my aunt and go to the Lowell Cemeteries where family was buried. I never understood how she remembered where all the graves were but she did. The three of us would get the flowers out of mom’s back seat and start our work.

First we would pull weeds around the graves whose markers lay flat in the ground. Their family never had the type of money to have the larger stones that stood upright. But they were a proud working-class Irish family nonetheless. It was important that the names on the grave markers be seen, though, since they were as important as anyone else in that cemetery.

We’d place the geraniums around the stones and stand back and look at our work. There were never tears. Not even once.

 “I’ll come back and get the geraniums in two weeks before the cemetery people remove them all,” Mom would say. “They should be okay without water for that long.”

One day when I was older I asked my mom why she went to so much trouble getting flowers for someone who wasn’t there to appreciate them.
“It’s a way of remembering them,” she said.
“Can’t you remember them at home?” I asked.
“It’s just not the same as coming here,” she replied.

I never really discussed it with her again. She continued to do the Memorial Day cemetery run up until about 3 years before her death. My aunt Muriel was gone at that point so my dad would go with her.

When mom was dying two years ago, she told me she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread with my dad’s when he was gone too.
“Where would you like them spread?” I asked her.
“Oh, I’ll leave that up to him. Just so long as we’re together,” she said, patting my hand.

So there’s no picking the right geranium for her now that she’s gone or driving all over the city of Lowell on Memorial Day weekend. Her ashes sit in my dad’s house, vacant now that he’s in a nursing home and we prepare to sell the house.

But I’ll remember her. Still. Without tears. And I’ll plant carefully-chosen geraniums this weekend in my yard as I’ve done for many years. I’ve always liked geraniums. They’re heartier than most flowers and don’t need a lot of water. 

Honoring her spirit

Me and the Patty

Tomorrow is the 2nd anniversary of my mom's death. Great way to start a blog post, eh? I only mention it because tomorrow my husband and I leave on a trip to stay with friends in FL for a few days. 

I hadn't planned on hopping on a plane on May 9th because of this sad date. It just worked out that way with everyone's schedules at work and school. But I'm glad it did.

Last year I spent the day mostly with my dad. Taking him on a ride up the coast and out to lunch. Trying to just be there for him. I wasn't there for myself at all but that's rather typical Kathy behavior when it comes to my family's needs.

It was also typical mom behavior. She never ever focused on herself. Even when she was dying. I don't know that it's the best way to be but it certainly worked for her. 

The friends we're staying with are very fun and we expect to have a lot of laughs and hugs. Mom would have approved and, in fact, if she were able to communicate with me now, she would be applauding our trip on this date. I can just hear her, "Go live your lives! Remember me in the happy times!" 

In my mom's eulogy, I mentioned my friend Patty who my mom adored even though they really only interacted a few times in their lives. Patty is as full of life as my mom and an even bigger extrovert. She's also a great hugger. 

Some might think it's disrespectful of a loved one to go out and celebrate on the anniversary of their death. I beg to differ. I'm not forgetting her. I'm actually honoring her wishes to remember her when I'm smiling. I also went out on her birthday last year and danced my ass off with Ron and my friend Henry. Mom would have approved of that as well.

Tomorrow night when we are out to dinner with our dear friends, we will raise a glass to "the mumsie" and continue on with our fun and our hugs. Maybe mom had a hand in this after all.

Boston on my mind

Boylston Street in winter

I don't know how others process trauma, but I do it by writing. I need to get the horror out of my head by pulling it down through my fingers and out onto a keyboard. 

Last night, like a lot of people in Massachusetts and the rest of the country, I spent many hours in a daze watching the same scenes over and over again on the television. I don't know what I expected. Maybe that the result would be different every time they showed the pre-explosion scenes. Or that the killer would show his face. But probably more that it would become real to me. It isn't now. Still.

This was how I reacted to 9-11. Dazed and sick to my stomach for days. Watching the carnage and the panic-stricken faces breaks my heart. Seeing strangers run toward an explosion to help fills me with awe. Thank God for the strong and the selfless. 

But this time I wasn't able to go to work the next day. I'm home. On the same spot on the couch that I was last night. My grieving isn't just about the people this time. It's also about my beloved Boston. 

My NY cousins went through this too, I'm sure, when their city was terrorized that gorgeous September day. A day so much like yesterday.

The area of Boston that saw the bombs rip through flesh is my favorite part of town. I have spent some of the happiest times of my life hanging around there with my husband and our friends. Laughing while we walk, proud of "my" city for being so filled with history. 

I watched the marathon on Boylston four years ago after the Sox game I was attending with my brother spilled out onto the streets. Proud of my city again then too as it hosted so many people from around the world. 

Will I be able to go back to my favorite spots again without being sucked into the memory of yesterday? It feels like it does when I think about my mother now. It's impossible for me to think of the happy times without returning to the memory of her final days. That trauma for me has never subsided though it's been almost two years that she's been gone.

I wonder how many more good memories will be lost to the reality that there is an end to it all. My mother could keep the sad and unfair at bay. She told me once that she practically denied the sad times and thought only of the good. What a skill. One I wish I had at times like this.

Maybe the trick is to never forget that good can turn to bad in an instant. Temper my knee-jerk joy with thoughts of Patriots Day 2013. It's not who I want to be. But it might keep me off this corner of the couch and back out into the world sooner. 

A compassionate distance

I often get revelations about my life at odd times. Once while I was chopping vegetables I realized that the reason I love to cook is because I own the outcome. If it's great, I get the credit; if it's bad, I have no one to blame but myself. A true control freak if there ever was one.

Today I had an epiphany in a place where revelations should happen - Sunday service at my church. We had a guest minister who co-led worship with my minister and they knocked it out of the park.

There's a lot going on with folks in my church right now. It seems that bad luck comes in waves and there are many of us who are feeling an undertow. The service and the sermon were centered around holding each other in times of sadness. It was also about finding the greater truth in personal struggles, allowing ourselves to do a very human thing - fail.

At one point during the sermon, my mind wandered. Taking with it some spoken phrase or sentence and leading me to its logical but very personal conclusion. 

I'm one of those struggling in my church right now. There are others with much much greater sorrow than me but we've all got something weighing our hearts down. Mine is my dad and his current medical situation. 

Yesterday I had to tell dad that he is moving from the rehab section of the facility he is in over to the long-term nursing section. His very serious hip break coupled with his dementia have caused his rehab progress to plateau and the insurance company has stopped paying. He is not well enough to go home and we are at a crossroads.

He did not take the news well though I used everything I've learned in grief counselling to make it easier for him.

I've been overwhelmed with anxiety and sadness for months about dad. Thoughts of him consume me every day and night and I often feel that I will crack under the pressure. 

I'm a fixer by nature. Hate to not be in control. But this situation is not like cooking where it is all on me. I'm making it into that, but that's not right. I realized today that I never learned an important lesson from my mom's death two years ago. I tried to own that too. Coaching her to open up and share her feelings when that was clearly not what was right for her. Feeling like I failed because she died never really accepting - in a way that spoke to me - that she was at the end of her days.

How arrogant I was. And how arrogant I am still. 

My insight today during the service was about this arrogance. The only person whose dying I own is mine. I can walk with someone on their last journey but I can't carry them. 

Dad's story will unfold in his time and on his terms. The only thing I own emotionally is bearing witness to his story. Respecting that the universe has its own plans for him as it does for me. And being by his side when he needs a hand to hold.

I feel freer today than I have in years. Finally realizing that the paths we walk are paved with stones we've laid before us. 

Merry Christmas, mom

It wasn't anything I hadn't done before. Singing in a chorale for elderly residents of a local nursing home is something I did for over a year. Every month, we'd go and sing five-foot-two standards and other songs that folks in their 80s would remember and enjoy.

Today was different, though. Today I went with members of the First Parish youth groups who had never done that before. I wasn't sure how they'd feel about it once we were actually standing in front of elderly residents, some bound by wheelchairs and the ravages of dementia. I wasn't really thinking about how I'd feel about it because I was focused on the kids.

I hung out and sang at the back of the group letting the kids have the spotlight since this was their moment and a time of social outreach made more safe by being with each other.

At the end of our "performance" I went out to chat with the front row of residents, all of whom took my hand and thanked me. They told me how much they enjoyed having us and singing along. They loved having the kids there. 

One man in a wheelchair, whom I found out later was crying through some of the songs, told me that this was the best day he'd ever had. 

I moved to his right and took the hand of a woman who was also in a wheelchair. She looked in my eyes and was trying to get the words out but was having difficulty putting a sentence together. But the look in her eyes told me that she was grateful and was touched by the visit. 

I didn't want her to struggle any longer and I knew what she had in her heart. I  instinctively kissed her forehead and she rested her head on my shoulder for just a moment. It was then that I felt what I hadn't since my mother died 19 months ago today.

What I felt surprised me but felt so familiar at the same time. I can only describe it as a moment of complete spiritual connectivity. It wasn't a stranger in a wheelchair resting her head on my shoulder, it was my mother. It felt like I was physically with my mother in that instant. She was there, connecting through the touch of another in a moment of pure love.

When my mother visited my grandmother in the nursing home she always stopped to visit others, especially those who had no other visitors. I remembered the times I went with my mother. We'd walk in the front door of my grandmother's nursing home and there they were. All lined up, seemingly just waiting for my mom. 

She would always be beyond cheerful (in her usual upbeat, positive, I-love-people way) as she stopped and talked to each one. She remembered their stories and even their wardrobes. If anyone had a new pair of earrings on, a new sweater, or even a new hairdo mom would always notice. She would ask about their latest doctor's visit and knew them all by name.

I loved those moments with my mother. I was so proud and amazed at her big heart. They loved my mother and my mother's spirit. 

I had forgotten about mom's honest and sincere connection to these lonely people who probably had no other visitors until she came again. That was, until I kissed that woman's forehead today. 

I've been pushing Christmas to the back of my brain since my mother died last year. I don't look forward to writing cards, decorating the tree, or wrapping gifts. I just want it over with. Moving through the tasks as I do at my job. Meeting a deadline so I can move on to the next project.

That all stopped today. Maybe it was the meaning of Christmas that finally hit me. Doing something that brings me back to the true spirit of the season. Maybe I was just filled with joy and pride of the kids I mentor every Sunday morning. 

Or maybe my mother found me, in the corner of my heart that I share with her. Reaching out to someone who can't find the words but doesn't need to. Meeting at a place more important than spoken language. A place that is love, simple and pure. 

Thanks, mom, for teaching me a great lesson. If I ever end up needing to be in a nursing home, I know you will be there with me through the kindness of others.