Transported

 

Dear UD,

So many years ago, a couple decades even, I wrote this short piece:

 

I spied a container full of pickled okra—placed two on my salad plate beside beets, tomatoes and cucumbers, strolled back to my table where I sat in my chair, picked up an okra by its head, bit into the sour end with a crunch; the seeds rolled on my tongue and— transported back ten years to dinner at Grandpa Bruce’s house where I ate pickled okra before playing bridge, hugging my grandpa so tight I never want to let him go, never want him to die, buried with a rain gauge and my daughter’s scribbled picture in the oak drawer of the coffin’s lid and a perfect grand slam dealt on his chest, leaving me missing his gray whiskered kisses, his smell of fresh outdoors, and his hands of no trump.

 

Since then, we lost grandma, grandpa, dad, you, mom. Years later, a decade even, the grief is still there. Dulled some from time. Lessened some from the activities of life. But still lingering, buried deep, ready to strike sharp and hard when transported. There are those moments, those memories, those sensory connections that transport us back in time, and the beauty of the memory clashes with the pain of the loss.

 

A kaleidoscope of shared images flows through my mind:

So many hands of no trump, road trips singing the soundtrack from Into the Woods, specially made omelets, your dogs lying at your feet, spring buds, Scrabble tiles, the bookshelves you made, the jungle gyms you built, the swing sets you constructed, garden tomatoes, roasted corn on the cob, the car racing over the ditch into the grass as you showed me how to drive and missed the sign for the sharp turn…

 

An orchestra of sounds floods my heart:

I can hear your hearty chuckle as we watched Bringing up Baby, your deep voice as you taught us to play the Broadway game you created, the bark of your dogs, the bubble of your chicken veggie soup, the buzz of the hummingbirds in your yard, the sizzle of a searing steak, the crackle of the fire under the pot of apple butter…

 

And sometimes it’s the new thing that transports: The new moments I treasure yet you are not there. The new beauty and wonder and learning I want to share with you. The new people and accomplishments I want to tell you all about. The craziness and folly all around that I want to discuss. The moments I want to call and hear your voice, your advice, your perspective on something. The hard truth—I still miss you, mom, dad. We all do.

 

So on the day you were born long ago, I choose to focus on the beauty and love and good from you living on this earth and being my uncle. I am so grateful for those years and those memories, and I hold onto all the good and pass it on to the next generations.

 

Love, Rach

Conversation, Interrupted

Dear UD,

               Eight years ago on this day, we all gathered to celebrate your 61^st birthday. The next month, we lost you. I can’t believe it’s been eight years since we’ve talked. Eight years since I’ve heard your voice. Eight years since we played Bridge together, ate together, laughed together.

                Time is uncountable. There are so many things I want to tell you, so many changes in the world, in my life, so many times I want to brainstorm with you again.

 

Conversation, interrupted.

 

Even in this past year so much has happened that I wish you, and mom, and dad, were here to witness, to share. 

I’m starting my own business, a publishing company, and publishing some of my books, and your plays. So many days, I wish I could call you to talk about the company, the editing, the excitement, all those details that you nurtured, and I wish so much you were here to see Memorial Day Picnic published.

 

My grandson, DJ, David James, is a source of love and joy and happiness. He shares a name with you, and like you, he is the epitome of loving and creative and smart and sweet.

 

I met a brilliant, kind, amazing man, and I wish we could all sit around the table, play Scrabble or Spades, and talk and laugh and learn together.

 

One two three…those are only three but some of the top, best, most precious I want to tell you, mom, dad…

 

Conversation, interrupted.

 

It’s Spring again, UD, so time to celebrate and honor you and your influence on me, in this world, and in our family. Happy birthday, Uncle David. You are remembered, you are missed, you are loved.

 

Love, Rach

Signs of Spring

"I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face. " 

~Langston Hughes

Dear UD,

 

I walk around the lake, grateful for the cooler temps and the sunshine peeking between rain clouds. The trees are green, and ducks dive for fish creating a gentle splash in the water. For a few moments, I forget the war in Ukraine, the rising gas prices, the astronomical increases in rent, the lower student enrollment impacting schools around the country, and the tumult over the recent pandemic.

 

In this moment, I’m just a woman walking in nature, putting one foot in front of the other as I breathe deeply and enjoy the crisp breeze.

 

One step. And then the next.

Abruptly, I spy green shoots springing up through the dirt, and I am stunned. Paralyzed by an overwhelming grief that sprouts from my heart and throughout my body. Signs of spring will always and forever remind me of you, Uncle David, and of mom, and I didn’t expect to see that one here in Florida. I kneel down, gazing at this reminder of beauty, hope, and renewal. A reminder of you and mom. So many memories flood my mind of hunting for signs of spring with you and mom. As I pause to take it in, the grief flows through and out, and I am filled with memory and love.

 

Today is your seventh birthday in heaven, UD. Seven birthdays without you here on this earth. Seven years of missing you. Same for dad…seven birthdays without him, seven years of missing him. And this year brings the fourth birthday without mom, four years of missing her.

 

Every day, I still miss you so much, miss mom, miss dad. Wish I could talk to you all again, share birthdays together, eat your specially crafted omelet and mom’s homemade rolls, play Bridge or Spades, and hear your voices and laughter. Each year that passes both dulls the ache of the loss yet sharpens the twist of living life without you. How I wish you had all had more time with us here. How I wish you were all here now and part of DJ’s life. I know you all watch over him from heaven, and he will know you all through memories, lessons, legacies passed down from you to me to my daughters and now to their children.

 

Happy birthday, UD. Thank you for the memories, the foundation of time together and unconditional love, and your model of creativity and excellence.

 

Love, Rach

Spring Fever 2021

Dear UD,

I miss spring in Missouri—smiling daffodils, green green grass, tiny buds on limbs, morel mushrooms hunts, crocuses popping up out of the ground even with a light dusting of snow, earthworms wiggling away from hungry robins and blue jays, bird nests speckled with tiny eggs, chick hatchlings chirping, box turtles just out of hibernation, freshly tilled gardens planted with rows of spinach and green onions and carrots, quick spring showers that leave mud and puddles, asparagus sprigs standing proudly ready to pick and eat....the beauty of spring teeming with life, yes, I miss it so.

 

                But more than anything, I miss Mom, miss Dad, miss you, miss the me I was then, miss the family unity, miss what passed for normal just six years ago.

 

                Grief changes us. It rips us apart and puts us back together like a Humpty Dumpty that could never be put right again.

 

                Uncle David, I don’t know how you did it—you, mom, and Uncle Bob. You were all in your late twenties when you lost your mom, and then in your forties when you lost your dad. I remember your lament of “we’re orphans now. We’re orphans now” at Grandpa Bruce’s funeral. I didn’t understand anything then. Not at all. No one can at all…until it happens. But now. Now, I need your guidance and wisdom. How did you do it? How did you all process and handle that grief and still move forward with life and love and living? How did you all still keep the family together and make it seem so easy? I don’t know how we’re supposed to do it without you and mom. Or is that your secret? That you had each other? The three of you together could face anything. Well, the three of you and God. Having a relationship with God—is that your secret?

I have siblings I love and am close to. I have God. We still even have Uncle Bob (Thank God). But nothing’s the same now. Nothing is okay without you all. Nothing. It’s been six years since we lost you and Dad and two years since we lost mom, and it still hurts so much. I still reach for the phone all the time to call mom, call you. I still ache to hear mom’s voice, your voice, again. I still have a hole in my heart where I am missing mom.

 

America gives us three days to grieve. What a joke. Grief is a never-ending monster of heavy aches and overwhelming sadness. After three days, people tell us to move on, stay busy, get back to life and living. After a year or two, they tell us to let go of the old or previous pain, that it has nothing to do with anything happening in life now. What they don’t realize is that we ARE moving on, staying busy, living, and even moving forward because there’s no other choice; however, the pain is ever present, ever there, ever impacting everything everything everything that happens in life from that moment on. Yes, the pain ebbs and flows. The wound scars over. The bruise fades. Time dulls the ache, and memories, old and new, fill the hole in our hearts to a certain extent. However, the pain NEVER goes completely away, and there’s not a second when we don’t see and feel that grief. Because moving forward means a new normal, a new life, a new self. It means living in the shadow of what used to be and will never be again, not on this earth.

 

There are times when living is lighter again, fun again, happy again, and there are still times, will always be times, when the grief encompasses us and all we do. Today is your special day, UD, and so I feel both happy and sad. Happy that we had you in our lives, happy for all the memories and all that we learned from you, happy that you lived and loved once upon a time on this earth and we got to share part of that journey with you. At the same time, I am still so sad without you here with us.

 

Moving forward also means remembering and honoring what was and the people who were such a vital part of our story. Filling our hearts and lives with reminiscent moments. Like seeing a full moon and knowing mom is looking down and smiling. Or searching for signs of spring just like mom and you, UD. Or celebrating birthdays with traditions and recipes passed on from generation to generation.

 

Which brings us back to you. Happy birthday, Uncle David. Thank you for all that you were and are in our lives.

 

Love, Rach

A Thing of Beauty 2020

Dear UD,

As November 2020 approached, I didn’t know what to do with it. The world ended in a lot of ways for many people this year; the world is in the middle of a pandemic, and in America, we’re seeing increased racial violence as well as civil unrest and nearing the end of an election year where there was a televised presidential debate that was anything but presidential. I was in debate in high school, and if I acted like the so-called president, I would have been escorted off stage immediately and likely banned from future debates. Personally, I’m approaching my second birthday without my mom in this world, and a birthday year where we were both supposed to turn big numbers together (first her in August and then me this month). Not to mention that I’m living alone for the first time in my life while also working only from home, spending day and night on an electronic device for work, connection, fun, trying not to go bat-shit crazy, but not trying not to cuss so much. Yes, I normally don't swear much in general; however, you know if you hear me dropping F-bombs like crazy, then I'm either extra super exhausted (check) or super extra pissed off (check check). In the past few weeks (or is it months), I've been both, and so I find myself cussing a lot as well as singing to songs where I can curse some more. So, that's where I am this semester of super extra grading and responding and working on the computer all the f-ing time and dealing with the f-ing pandemic on top of everything.

 

The thing is, Uncle David, for all of us still here on this earth right now, what we are dealing with is very personal. Too many personal things that we don’t know how to process, don’t know what to do with, but hope to survive. I know that. At the same time, because of the pandemic and all that comes with it, there’s also the collective part that we are all dealing with that makes the personal even more difficult right now. And what do we do with all of that?!

 

And without you, without mom, without family living in the same home with me, I feel so alone. Just a week ago, I discovered something disturbing about someone I know personally (not a close friend or family member, but still someone I hung out with once upon a time), and I just wanted to call my mom, to call you. I want to hear Mom’s voice, and I know she’d say something like, “People are crazy. Just goes to show you never really know someone. That’s why we need God.” And, I want to hear your deep chuckle, because as horrific as the story was, I know you would help me process it and then find a way to help me see the positive in the situation, the good in the world, and the hope in humanity; and you’d make me laugh before we hung up. I miss you and mom so much it hurts. And it feels so lonely without you both in this world with me.

But the other week, I read an article that helped me not feel so alone. In a nutshell, “The ancient term 'acedia' describes the paradoxical combination of jangling nerves and vague lack of purpose many of us are feeling now. Reviving the label might help.” In the article, “Acedia: thelost name for the emotion we’re all feeling right now,” Jonathan L. Zecher states:

 Reviving the language of acedia is important to our experience in two ways.

 

First, it distinguishes the complex of emotions brought on by enforced isolation, constant uncertainty and the barrage of bad news from clinical terms like “depression” or “anxiety”. Saying, “I’m feeling acedia” could legitimise feelings of listlessness and anxiety as valid emotions in our current context without inducing guilt that others have things worse.

 

Second, and more importantly, the feelings associated with physical isolation are exacerbated by emotional isolation – that terrible sense that this thing I feel is mine alone. When an experience can be named, it can be communicated and even shared.

UD, it’s true that every one of us still on this earth has both personal and collective issues to handle right now, so it’s more important than ever to think about, find, and share A Thing of Beauty every day this November. That means looking at the people and places around us and finding meaning and beauty in what is, reimagining difficult or painful things in ways that calm and soothe, reseeing ugly things in ways that simplify and beautify. You did this, UD, in many ways, and Mom did it in her own way too. “Bless someone else, and you’ll feel better,” she’d always remind us when things were challenging. “Look how far you’ve come and what all you’ve survived. I’m proud of you,” you’d tell us. I miss you both so much. But, for my own sanity and to honor the tradition as well as honor you, mom, and dad, I will find and share a thing of beauty every day this month. Thank you, Uncle David, for always believing in me. Thank you, Mom, for always loving me. Thank you, Dad, for always teaching me.

 

Love, Rach

 

PS: For those of you reading this blog entry, I encourage you to look for a thing of beauty as you go about your day this month. Whether you haven’t left your house for six months or you’ve had to go to work every single day despite everything going on around you or you are taking care of Covid-19 patients or you have or have had the virus. No matter what your circumstances, I encourage you to look for a thing of beauty right wherever you are. Maybe you’ll find it in the person next to you, or in the nature around you, or in the kindness of a stranger. But wherever you find it, I encourage you to share it. Tell someone else about it, pass it along, let it heal your heart. Because you never know whose heart you might bless or whose life you might save just from seeing beauty right where you are and passing it along.

 

Birthdays, 2020

 

Dear UD,

I find myself nostalgic for so many things lately. Birthday celebrations with you and mom and dad, parties with all of our extended families together, conversations on the phone with you and Mom, having my daughters living in my home, hosting exchange students, even life before smart phones or cell phones, and definitely life before the pandemic.

The world is so different this year of 2020. It’s riddled with pandemics, viruses, quarantines, political circus acts, videos of racism and police brutality, black lives matter protests, online-only education, unemployment, foreclosures of both homes and businesses, superstorms, civil unrest, tweets of utter stupidity, and so much more. We moved from reading dystopian literature to living dystopian life, yet what overshadows this year for me is that Mom’s not here to celebrate our birthdays together this year. It’s not right, UD, and it’s not okay. But it is what is. 

Mom was 20 years old when I was born, and I remember the last time we celebrated our birthdays in person together. In 2016, she turned 66 in August, so of course I turned 46 that November. At the time, I had just moved back to Missouri for the fall semester and was renting a house in Houston, so I hosted a family birthday party for mom. She was so happy because everyone came, and that’s all that mattered to her—time with those she loved.

Per typical celebrations in our family, we had tons of homemade food, presents, a homemade cake, and even BYOC, also known as “bring your own candle” (thanks to Sonny) for the birthday cake. And tons of people and craziness, but I remember Mom being so happy, and we took lots of photos.

Sam and Serena hosted my birthday party that November. Again, Mom was so happy to be celebrating my birthday with me in person.

It’s unfathomable that we lost her just a couple of years after that and that we’ll never celebrate a birthday together again.

Uncle David, I don’t have a strong ending, a life lesson, or a conclusion. I just miss you, miss mom and wish you were both here. Today, I’m doing things to honor and celebrate her—breakfast and conversation with Alaina (Granny loved her grandkids and spending time with them and was so proud of them), homemade chicken-veggie soup for lunch (Mom loved making soup and sharing food with her family and friends), pool time this afternoon (she was a lifeguard as a teen and loved swimming her whole life), Chinese takeout for dinner (not only did she love eating Chinese food, but it was the last meal we shared at a restaurant with her—all ten of her children and almost 30 of her grandchildren were there, so the restaurant had to push together a long row of tables so that we could all eat at the same “table”), and movie night with a friend (watching one of Mom’s favorite movies).

Happy 70^th birthday, Mom. You are missed; you are loved.

UD, we wish you and Mom were here right now, but as you and mom taught us, we will honor and remember our ancestry, our loved ones, our lessons learned. And we will celebrate birthdays and loved ones, both keeping close old memories and continuing to make new ones.

Love,

Rach 

Pandemic

Dear UD,

The world is closed. Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.

Mom would scoff at the way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus, a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic, saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.

And you, Uncle David, you would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past. You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history, literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not, I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day, every day. I miss you.

No matter what side of the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu), but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water, freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden, and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup plan is gone.

 

I am adrift on a sea of uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone. 

My school has moved online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S. hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might. Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as possible.  

I’ve prepared for hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced “social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke, The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder, and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben attaching a gate to the

big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I have those memories that I cherish.

But staying home now, here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.

It’s not that I haven’t gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But, now the stores are out of some necessities.

And now, no one wants to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.

I’ve had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society, stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?

Plus, it’s March, which means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before, we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers. You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet. I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that we’ll never witness it together again.

Happy 66^th birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that offers comfort, I still wish…  

I wish we could rewind to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.

Love, Rach

Facing It (Without Mom)

Dear UD,

It’s August, Mom’s birthday month, and I can’t believe she’s not here. I am almost exactly 20 years younger than her, and I counted on her turning older a few months before me. Mom would have been, should have been, 69 this year. How do I face turning 49 without her to show me the way?

Everything, everything, everything reminds me of her.

I walk to the pool and find mushrooms, sprung up overnight, and I think of Mom. I spy wildflowers growing near the fence, and I think of Mom. I see rippling rivers, and I think of Mom. A fog rolls in, and I think of Mom. The sunset or sunrise splashes against the sky, and I think of Mom. The moon rises, and I think of Mom. I reach for the phone to send her a text or call her to tell her about something, and I think of Mom.

Everything, everything, everything, all day, every day, reminds me of her.

There have been too many changes in the past five years and way too many changes this year alone. How do we face all of these changes? How do we face it when life changes everything and everything changes? How do we face it when we no longer have you or Dad or Mom to talk to?

I went back to Missouri this summer for Crawford Camp, our family reunion, and it was bittersweet. Precious because all ten of us kids and most of the grandkids were there. Special because there were strong connections yet little drama. Good because we played hard and had fun. Nourishing because we had delicious and healthy homecooked meals, like Mom taught us. Difficult because it was our first time there without Mom. Challenging and sad without her, without you, without dad. Her spirit, her lessons, her voice permeated everything we did that weekend. We congregated in the kitchen or outside, cooking, talking, laughing, but every second we were one hundred percent aware that Mom wasn’t there, that we missed her. On Saturday morning, I woke up to fog and sunrise over the river, and tears rolled down my face as I thought how much Mom would have loved that. Will we ever have Crawford Camp again? How do we face family reunions without Mom?

The next week, I stayed with Jill and spent time with various family members during the week and helped with VBS at Bado Church. The past two summers, I’d helped Mom prepare for VBS and taken photos of the kids during it. This summer, it was surreal, distressing, devastating that she wasn’t there teaching one of the classes. And three of her grandkids were baptized that Sunday. I snapped photos of this joyous occasion, but I almost didn’t make it through. Mom would have loved that night so much, and it’s heartbreaking without her there. How do we face it? Sherry helped when she said she knew Mom was rejoicing in heaven that night. But will I ever be part of VBS at Bado Church again? Will the next generation still go there?

I went to Union Cemetery to visit Mom and Dad. First, I picked wildflowers and took them to the grave. I cried and talked to Mom. It’s still so unbelievable. Words can’t convey the pain and difficulty of facing a mother’s gravesite.

As I drove away from the family farm and the town where I grew up, I wondered if I’d ever stay there again? If I’d ever attend a holiday celebration there again? How do we face it when our childhood memories are being obliterated so that we can’t even recreate them for the next generation and the only thing left is memory?

Summer 2019—the first summer in my memory where I didn’t eat anything fresh out of my mom’s garden when visiting that area. How do we face the lack of bounty? I found some jars of canned beets and tomato juice, and this year, I shared the beets with my sisters. The tomato juice sits in my fridge unopened. Once that is gone, I will never again have anything to eat or drink that my Mom made. How do I face that?

Too many changes. Too much loss. How do we face it?

UD, the Amazon, the lungs of the earth, is burning. Every day, it seems, there’s a new nightmarish headline, and those unbelievable stories combined with such personal loss is staggering. Cataclysmic. How do we face it all?

It’s August and Mom’s birthday. Three years ago, I hosted a birthday party for her, and all the family came. I hold precious memories of that day, the last birthday I celebrated with Mom in person. I want her to have more birthday celebrations for me to attend. Today, I want to call her up and wish her a Happy Birthday and tell her how much I love her. But I can’t. How do we face the day without her?

I don’t want to face it…

In “the Journey Through Grief: The Mourner’s Six ‘Reconciliation Needs’,” Alan Wolfelt states, “Grief is what you think and feel on the inside after someone you love dies. Mourning is the outward expression of those thoughts and feelings. To mourn is to be an active participant in our grief journeys. We all grieve when someone we love dies, but if we are to heal, we must also mourn.”

Although I don’t want to face her birthday without her here, it has come regardless, so I will surround myself with some of Mom’s favorites. I brought home sunflowers for the dining room table, and I’ll listen to the Beach Boys sing “Barbara Ann.” I’ll make an egg sandwich for breakfast, and for dinner, I’ll eat the hamburger, potato, carrot dish that I made from Grandma Bonnie’s recipe in the family cookbook. Then, we’ll watch Prince of Persia, one of the last few movies I watched with Mom and one that she loved. And, I’ll drink herb tea and light a candle that smells like honeysuckle. Every moment of this day will be in honor and love and memory of Mom.

UD, I’ll end with a Bible verse that she loved and lived: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Philippians 4:8. I thank Mom for the gift of her example, and today and every day, I aspire to be like her and live this verse.

Love, Rach

March Birthdays, Take Two

Dear UD,

Today, I have no words.

Today, you would have been 62.

Today, a year ago, we celebrated your 61^st birthday all weekend at your place, another family celebration filled with kids playing ball outside (and Little and Aiden jumping cliff to cliff, flying over open space), dogs romping around (except poor O. B. who shadowed your every move, sitting between your feet at every chance), and cousins/siblings/aunts/uncles all playing various games of Scrabble, Bridge, and the new Dragon Joust card game that you created. And you, cooking, grilling, making special meals for all of us even though you were the honored birthday boy. 

Sonny, Mom, and I stayed up until midnight on the night before, playing Bridge with you to ring in the first moments of your birthday. We saluted your birthday, and you jumped to Three No Trump, like always, winning the rubber.

We sang Happy Birthday (something you did for every single one of us on every birthday through a phone call), ate cake, and watched you open presents. Last year, mostly, you received cards, as you requested, where we told you how much you meant to us.

Did you know then, somewhere hidden inside, that it was your last birthday?

Did you know, in a way that we did not until after, how deeply you impacted our lives on so many levels? How very much we loved you? How special you were?

Even as we brought you presents, you gifted us with everything you had, with everything you were. 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. ~Hamlet (1.5.167-8)

Today, a song comes on the radio, and the lyrics slay me. No longer are you “only one call away.” No longer are you “there to save the day.” No longer can your siblings or 17 nieces and nephews or 30 plus great-nieces and nephews call to share news, get advice, wish you Happy Birthday.

Today, we vote in the primaries, trying to pick the best of the worst, without a viable option. I imagine what you would say and wish we could talk about it.

I’ve heard some people laugh at the idea of Trump, saying he wouldn’t have the power to do anything if elected. I’ve heard others say that Trump is a refreshing choice, someone to bring new life to the political hypocrisy and depravity of this corporation-run government. Both of those are furthest from the truth. This election year has been a debacle of Hunger Game/Nazi proportions. Will we not learn from history or from futuristic literature? George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” but World War II wasn’t that long ago. Surely we haven’t forgotten it already or forgotten where racism, prejudice, and blindly following dictators who use repeated common fallacies in reasoning leads?!

I would remind you of the stories I have read, of Fahrenheit 451, “Harrison Bergeron,” The Handmaid’s Tale, The Giver series, the Unwind series, and ask how people cannot see the parallels. How they cannot see our country sliding headfirst into a dystopia.

I have tried to stay out of the political debates this year, but Trump scares me. He should scare all of us. Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor, winner of Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, and author of Night, wrote, “We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

You always wanted to see the best in people, in our country, in our world. I wonder what you would say now, after all of the headlines and horrors of the past year. After the past week when our first amendment right to peaceful protest has been under attack. In the words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

 

So, today, I speak up and cast my vote. 

And, today, I’ve heard from various family members who are all thinking of you, honoring you, missing you.

Mom is planting a flower garden with roots and bulbs of perennials such as lilies, irises, wildflowers, and bleeding hearts. Every spring when they shoot up and bloom, she will think of you.

Others will watch a musical or Hitchcock classic or Shakespeare play, and some will reach out to a sibling or cousin and cherish the mundane fact of having a phone conversation with a loved one.

Still others will cook a meal that they learned in your kitchen while most of us will play a board or card game.

Whatever we do, we remember you.

Today is your special day. We love you, Uncle David. Happy birthday!

Love,

Rach

March Birthdays

Dear UD,

Today is Dad's birthday, the first day of March and yours, the 15th, halfway through. 2016, the year after we lost you both, the year when March limps in without roars, the year when spring, renewal, rebirth all seem out of reach.

Today, I honor Dad by remembering his beautiful and eloquent words to me on this day, 16 years ago:

I think all of us tend to look back on our lives on our birthdays, and solitary reflection is good for the soul…summoning tendrils of sadness and regret…but bringing also joy and the quiet contentment that comes with remembrance of things past. On this day I feel doubly blessed to have lived and loved, and I wanted to share an epiphany that intruded forcibly…bringing the greatest birthday gift imaginable...an ineffable sense of wondrous awe. Hovering always at the periphery of conscious thought is the blessed awareness of the people I love, my fellow traveler through this vale of tears. But this morning, in pensive solitude…I felt you all as a powerful presence…as a celestial choir singing the Happy Birthday song…I truly felt you all as if physically present…our hearts thrumming a delicate refrain of indescribable loveliness. And I thought that there is great beauty in this imperfect world…the indescribably sublime wonders of nature…the unutterable beauty of song…Willie Nelson singing “Always on my Mind”…the baroque counterpoint of Bach…The Winged Victory of Samothrace standing in Majestic grace after 23 centuries…fragments of thought from other fellow travelers we have never met, snatches of incredible poetic utterance…”And the women come and go, Talking of Michelangelo”… fictional characters we feel we know, like Yossarion and stately, plump Buck Mulligan. But shining above all of this with effulgent brightness is the blessed assurance that Love is the one thing that makes life worthwhile. I think there is a certain amount of wisdom that comes naturally as we age and mature, and I think walking for a year in the shadow of darkness has helped me see a great light…like Saul on the road to Damascus…I see how we are transported by love to any earthly paradise beyond description…that love for intimates, affection for friends, and good will towards everybody…redeems our tenuous lives and makes our transient pilgrimage significant. For above all else, I am assured that our love is a pearl of great price, a solitary Rose blooming in a wasteland. I love you, Honey. Dad

 

Flash forward to 2009, the last of his birthdays I celebrated with him in person. A trip to the Crawford farm, snowed in by a blizzard which blanketed the world in white, nestled in with family for cards, movies, music, and birthday cake, and a trudge through the snow with some of the younger kids.

I remember more clearly my last time celebrating anything with Dad. Christmas 2014. During the last week of his life, Dad remarked that he was glad he had moved back to the Ozarks, to the family farm, because it was home.

You, too, moved back to Missouri, near family. Home is where the heart is.

 

Yesterday, or so it seems, you said I was… and then my girls were… growing up too fast. If only you and Dad were still here to see them (and all 20 plus of the next generation) grow into their talents and careers and lives. Now it's their turn to ask, Do I dare disturb the universe? But I wouldn't want to be there (young adults who have to find their way) in this postmodern society. You, Dad, Eliot, all three of you pondered, probed this extraordinary, harsh, dark, and lovely world. If only both of you were still here to share your wisdom and counsel.

Today, I honor Dad with a movie marathon of some of his favorites. From the hilarious and beyond cool Blues Brothers to Kiss me, Kate to the mysteries of Agatha Christie to the bumbling Colombo played by Peter Faulk to the sharp and witty Sherlock Holmes. At least I will watch as many as possible after work, and I will laugh and cry, but love these classics and the memories they inspire.

 

Today, I light a candle for Dad, and on the 15^th I’ll light one for you. You were both such a blessing in our lives in so many ways, and we are blessed to call you family. So I declare March birthdays a blessing. Happy birthday, Dad. Happy birthday, Uncle David.

We miss you both more than words can say.

Love,

Rach