A Walk in the Cemetery

I walked to the Cemetery after work yesterday. It was a work-related task (deciphering between what our Town Cemetery map said and the reality). My goal was to find what family plot was available for a daughter to bury her mother and also her eventual resting spot.

It sounds a little gruesome. My co-workers suggested I go after dark (who can stay awake that long I wonder??) and they would come out and scare me. I chose daylight hours and looked forward to the nice, long walk on a perfect day.

I found the family I was looking for immediately. Our cemetery map contained errors and once I oriented myself to the map I had in hand, I replayed the conversation I had with the daughter and filled in a few of the blanks.

As the daughter spoke to me yesterday, I immediately thought of the conversations I had with Mom. Mom often spoke of her family members, she saved funeral cards, obituaries and had a small collection of the history books from nearby towns. If Mom didn't know an answer, she had her siblings and resources to seek her answers.

This particular daughter didn't have siblings to turn to, to help decipher some of the information we were seeking yesterday. I told her I would put on my detective hat and do my best to find what we needed to know.

Our family has some people who are true family historians. They have searched out family trees and we are the benefactors of their knowledge. I'm more of a story-person, so I collected memories, stories and history of life-as-they-knew-it. 

I collected Mom's family's stories right from the source. Mom, her three sisters and sister-in-law were happy to contribute to the book. When I collected Dad's family's stories, they were from five of seven of Dad's brothers (as well as their wives, children, friends and neighbors). All of Mom's family and two of Dad's brothers have died since their memories were put into writing, leaving us with the family lore they spoke of and the memories that were captured within the pages of history books and family memories.

I couldn't help but think of the stories and memories held within the cemetery. Everyone has a story. I hope they had a chance to leave their mark.

I had hoped Nature would pull out a small wonder for me to relay to the daughter I spoke to yesterday. The closest I got was spotting a gopher in the entrance of the cemetery. Never to be seen again. 

I have no mystical story to relay. Simply a respectful and peaceful reflection honoring those who were laid to rest. 

Sharing your story with your family and friends is a gift. Something to hold onto as time passes. 

Music to My Ears

The inclination to turn on the TV and lose yet another day loomed heavy over me yesterday morning. I overruled what I most wanted to do and turned on the radio instead. 

Radio. An assortment of music I had no control over. Music that spanned over the years and subconsciously took me back to moments in time long forgotten. I even found myself singing a little bit.

I thought thoughts I hadn't thought for a very long time. Wistful little memories I could barely hold onto. Thoughts of someone I hadn't spoken to for a very long time. 

I puttered in the kitchen doing baking/cooking/prepping kinds of things for hours on end. I had no burning desire to leave the kitchen because the other items on my perpetual to-do-list were less intriguing. 

Music kept me motivated, kept my spirits light and breezy. I didn't dance. But I did sing. It's a step in the right direction.

My future self will be very pleased:

Treats, sweets, meals and veggies prepped to make life simpler.

And it didn't hurt a bit.

Connecting the Dots

Time is an elusive thing. Slipping through our fingers like water, assuming we have a tomorrow ahead of us and the many hours we mark that don't make an impact in our bank of memories.

Thank goodness we do have dates of significance that mark our time in history. Births, deaths, anniversaries, special occasions and all the little things that make a solid mark in our history.

This morning's thoughts started out because I remember the date my cousin's daughter's birth. We lived in the same city, this was the first baby I knew in an up close and personal way and my sister's oldest son was born a few weeks later (I would have to double check the date).

Remembering this one date spurred the connecting tissue of part of my family's history. My sister had children every two years, except the one two-year-span which was filled by the birth of my oldest child. I remember the year of his birth, thus I can count backward and forward to fill in the blanks of my sister's family. I can fill in the years of my other sister's children using similar connections. 

The year 2005 was a year of significance within our family. Three major life and death events happened during this year. Remember the year and one can discern the months of each of these events.

The year 2012 was the beginning of a time of loss within Mom & Dad's families. Start at 2012 and the number patterns trigger the memories of other dates of significance.

Memories resurface by connecting the dots within one's life. One event can start a domino effect of one thing connecting to another. Oh-so-many conversations unfold as one topic triggers the next and the next and all those following. 

I spent several years in the company of a relative whose memories were diminishing. Long term memories were intact but the short term ones were losing ground. Writing notes, notes and more notes couldn't make a lasting impression. She asked questions. So many questions. 

The more time I spent with my aunt, the less I took the ability to remember for granted. The more questions she asked, the more I appreciated the need to connect the dots to trigger a memory.

This morning, I sat down and wrote three pages of dates, connections, extended connections, byproducts of one connection to another and had small family history recollection. Simply by connecting the dots.

Memories or Excess?

The move to my little home in this small town should have resulted in a major culling of "stuff". Long story, short? It didn't. 

The collection of paperwork and memories that made the move have been shredded, sorted and organized in a fashion. And this is what remains:

My favorite cozy little room in the house will be the "final resting place" for all of the above. It is my intent to cull what isn't important, display what is (a few floating shelves are high on my wish list) and what is left will be organized in binders which will be easy to leaf through.

The bigger question is why am I holding onto this stuff? My own children show little interest in what feels important to me. Perhaps this will change over the next twenty years but if it doesn't, I hope if all is sorted and organized there may be someone out there who would be interested in the "story" I hope to create.

This is just one small piece of a picture that is so much bigger than all of this. The massive amounts of pictures, paper, letter and memories that are still housed in my previous home. And Mom's library of books ...

I hope to find good homes for all of the above. I have thoughts and ideas.

In the mean time, I do have to wonder - 

am I holding onto memories or is this all a little too excessive?

The Power of Puttering

I have had the happy pleasure of preparing for guests two weekends in a row. While this sets off a domino effect of panic transformed into productivity, the results are worth it in the end.

Cleaning is always top-of-mind and living with cats makes cleaning an endless and futile job. Vacuuming is the second last thing that gets done, followed by a shower and taming my hair. Once I get my hair washed, my company is usually due within the next hour or two.

But I digress. The reason for this post is due to a morning when I started to putter before I poured my second cup of coffee.

I thought I would bring out my Christmas decorations and bring a little light and joy into the room. I turned on some music and the rest is history ...

Dusting off the unused and neglected decorations brought old memories back to life in a magical way. Everything I touched had been gifted to me over the years. Old friendships, my daycaring days, my family, my dancing years, a handmade decoration from an old family friend which was given to Mom, a gift from my Secret Santa one year ... I thought of each person and the circumstances around receiving each gift as I placed them on my cat-proof "Christmas shelf":

The corner shelf, itself was Mom's. Mom was with me all day as I adorned her shelf the way most people decorate a tree. I served supper on her plates; we drank apple cider out of her crystal wine glasses; we had tea from her china tea cups; we sat in "her room" with our tea, after supper. 

At every turn throughout the day, I heard Mom's voice, felt her spirit and honored my memories of her as they washed through me.

Memories. We are so very fortunate when reminiscing brings about a feeling of peace. The ability to recall and remember is sometimes a privilege we don't have the ability to hold onto forever.

So why? Tell me why?? Why am I tamping down the good stuff? Why am I filling every void within my days and nights with streaming TV shows, podcasts and other people's words? 

It felt SO good to putter around the house with music playing in the background. Light and easy music which left lots of room in my head to think my own thoughts and remember as I touched my life up close and in a personal way.

I have cleaned enough to see beyond the surface dirt and cat hair to discover there is SO much more to be cleaned! I have emptied off enough surfaces to realize I am holding onto things that really don't matter. 

I have come a small way but there is so much further to go.

So why? Tell me why?? Did I wake up the next day and turn on the TV and lose yet another day after tending to only a few small tasks I had left over from the previous day? Why was it so tempting to turn on a podcast and play a mind-numbing word wipe game in the background instead of stopping here to spill some of my thoughts into the written word?

I must remember the Power of Puttering. The magic of music. 

May you find a little piece of yourself today. Tuning into music, turning off social media and scrolling, tend to one small pile that has been accumulating and allow yourself the freedom to putter. Listen to your thoughts, move your body, search for the little piece of serenity within that has been evading you lately.

That sounds bossy. You do "you". We all must do what we need to, to take the next forward step. But when you DO find a little piece of yourself somewhere along the way, stop and nurture the moment and if you can prolong it, try. Just try. 

The Things that "Stick"

My mind has been all over the map this morning as I rewind the tape of the weekend past, conversations and trains of thought that have led me to this post.

The small act of making myself a cup of coffee with as few wasted steps as possible led me down the garden path of the maze of memories interwoven into my being. 

I read the book "Cheaper by the Dozen" as a child. I remember the father character of the book being an efficiency expert and how the story wove his efficiency into the tale. It is one of those things that has stuck with me over the years. I recognize the part of me that became "efficient" after reading this book.

Oh, what an amazing world we live in when one can simply google "cheaper by the dozen book efficiency expert" to correlate what one thinks they remember, to Wikipedia - which in fact confirms my memory is not just a made up story in my mind. It is in fact, a fact.

I love when life gives me the opportunity to remember something I thought I forgot.

My aunt asks many questions that provide me with various opportunities to remember little things. "Do you remember living on the farm? Do you remember your dad farming? Do you remember ..." 

To keep myself entertained during our somewhat repetitive conversations, I find myself digging a little digger to refine and explain my answers. I have fond memories of taking supper out to the field during harvest. I remember the picnic basket Mom packed up, the feeling in the air, the memory of food tasting so much better because it came from that picnic basket. Then my memories took me to the time Dad showed us (I don't remember who I was with but I know there was someone with me) how to chaff the wheat, then chew on the kernels of wheat, to see if they were ready to harvest. We were at the bottom of the hill on our farm, by the grain bins. The memory is so vivid, I can almost remember the sky that day...

I spent the past weekend at "The Cute House" we have recently adopted. The house is furnished with history. The kitchen table with a history that goes back as far as my memories; a bench Dad made; an old stool Dad reinforced; the picnic basket (see above) currently holds various household hardware; my brother's old twin bed; not to mention the multitude of items I inherited from Mom's kitchen. Even the items from my home which have been donated to the Cute House have a story, because I don't need them due to what has been replaced from Mom's belongings (crystal wine glasses in my city home verses the dollar-store wine glasses which preceded them).

Memories. To have them. To hold onto them. To be able to retrieve them from the recesses of your mind or be triggered to recall them. Precious. The human brain is a miracle like no other. It is a precious commodity we tend to take for granted when it functions as expected.

The kitchen table on the far right side of this photo resides in my cozy little "home away from home" (that is me in the box, along with Mama Cat, which dates the picture back to the early 1960's)

The oh-so-special picnic basket, along with the potato salad Mom taught me how to make

It is amazing. The little things that "stick" as time goes on. I am grateful beyond words for the memories I have. So many good feelings are triggered. A history I am happy to recall.

It is sad to realize how many people are triggered by less than idyllic remembrances. The things that "stick" are not necessarily all good things. 

I am so very grateful the things that have stuck with me over the course of my life are predominantly warm and fuzzy. 

Digging Deep

The timing was impeccable. As I sorted through memory boxes and that which I have collected over the years, it was already on my radar. I was missing a box. 

Who would have guessed my son would ask me questions that would lead me to search for that specific box one day later? "I need to interview you for my class - I will need to know details about my birth, learning to walk ..." and my hearing faded to black as I realized how few details I can recall. Everything I need to know is in this house somewhere.

Me: [walking to my bedroom closet and looking at a shelf where the missing box used to reside, as if this would give me a clue as to its current location] This is where it used to be...

Son: We don't need to do this tonight

Me: I know I wouldn't throw it away. I know it. 

Son: Let's not worry about this now

Me: What did I do with it?!?

I wandered downstairs and dug through collection of tax papers - mine, Mom's & Dad's. Each box was clearly defined as "tax stuff". I pulled out one box after another and was just starting to lose hope when I spotted something that didn't look like income tax [I love those see through storage containers]. There it was!

As excited as I was to find the missing box, I was even more elated to discover "this" was the box I would like to use, to organize my cards. Ooooo!! I can't wait to get back, dig into this, dig deeper into this whole decluttering project and find efficient "forever homes" for that which I have kept.

My heart sank at the knowledge that I must deal with three lifetimes worth of paperwork as well. But on the flip side, shredding these documents will give me a whole heap of storage containers which will serve a much better purpose than holding onto that which was obsolete decades ago.

I unearthed the "Baby's First Year" calendar I knew would hold the answers my son will be asking when we make the time for this interview. The questions go deeper than my memory so I need a little help. This also reaffirms my defense that there IS a reason we hold onto this stuff.

What else will I discover as I continue to mine for gold within this house of ours? Time will tell.

P.S. I found an unexpected bonus while digging through the boxes - four long lost cat toys!! There was something in this for everyone.

Taming the Beast

After a weekend of sorting, culling and organizing papers, cards, family history and memorabilia, this is the not-as-messy-middle ground I must live with until next time:

I found things I didn't even know I had: 

• souveniers from P.E.I., that could have only come from Mom after her trip out there in 1984
• a scribbler Mom had saved from my "playing school" days, where I made up a day plan, wrote out assignments for my imaginary class, did the assignment myself, then marked it myself, back in the teacher role
• Christmas, birthday and "just because" cards from Mom with little more than her name signed, but the knowledge she had spent time to find just the right card - I have sorted them according to category and plan to pull out a random card to fit the occasion and feel Mom's presence when I miss her
• a forwarded email from my brother, to my sister (who had asked him for their punch recipe):

1. Curl fingers toward fist
2. Be careful not to tuck thumb inside fist. Broken thumbs may occur
3. Now raise fist up
4. Look directly at target
5. For increased power and velocity, twist hip and shoulder toward target as you deliver punch
6. For added joy and effectiveness, follow this punch with another from the opposite hand
7. This is known as the old one-two

Hope this has been helpful.

And I found more. So much more. Buried treasure was found within the massive heap of years worth of collecting that which felt special at the time. 

A new week is upon me and I had to sort myself out of the messy middle and tame the beast until next time. Funny thing is, I am actually looking forward to the next time.

Taking one hard step in a direction you want to go isn't easy, but it is almost always worth the effort. 

Life is in the Re-Telling

I visit my aunt on a regular basis. She has reached a stage in her life where her stories and recollections are on "repeat". A story will start with one memory which triggers her narrative in a predictable fashion. When she forgets a detail, I can nudge her memory to help her recall and she is off and running again.

The stories are comfortably repetitive. A few of the details are slipping. I can sense the fight within her to hold on tight to what she remembers. I am grateful when I can fill in the blank as needed.

Our conversations are not one way. She asks me about my life, my choices and we ponder parenting, our choice in careers, our past, lessons learned and our general take on life-as-we-know-it.

My story isn't one of a predictable nature. My on again, off again marriage triggers so many questions from my aunt. "Why did you keep going back?" "You came from such a different life - how could you have made that choice?"

My career wasn't one I sat and pondered. I got a job out of necessity. I honestly believe the job I had was the one best suited for me. "You should have become a teacher" she tells me on a regular basis.

The twists and turns in my story brought me to a point when I opted to walk away from the stability of a job with benefits and a pension and opened my daycare, so I could be a stay at home mom. "You are the same age as [my son] - why aren't you retired?" "You should have been a teacher" ...

Our mutual story telling goes back and forth. We have come to expect each other's responses. My aunt's theories on life become stronger with each telling. My conviction that the choices I made as I lived my life forward also become more convincing each time I re-tell my story.

My aunt reflects on her life and her take-away from life-as-she-lived it is you should enjoy life while you are young. Having fun, being physically active, being home for your children are the lessons I hear. There is an appreciation for her stable marriage and parenthood as she compares and contrasts her story to my own.

She recently told me "You have led an interesting life". The inner thoughts that run rampant through my mind as we retell our stories was silenced. Within the silence I heard the voice of my middle son once telling me, "Go on that holiday! When you start repeating your stories when you get old, I want them to be interesting ones."

Yes. I have led an interesting life. It is a life that has taught me what I needed to know. This particular path has built my character. I wouldn't be who I am today if life had been any other way.

When I start retelling my stories, I hope I remember the lessons. I hope I focus on the happy endings. I hope I tell the other side of my stories with compassion and empathy for the other party(s).

There is a benefit to repeating the same conversations on a regular basis. I have the opportunity to revise and refine my responses as time progresses.

When I start repeating my stories when I get old, I hope they are interesting ones.

I can almost hear the voice of my son saying (half serious, half in jest), "You aren't all that interesting now so why would you think anything will change?" 

A Room With a Door

I have been finding it impossible to book a date, a time and a place with myself to fulfil Julia Cameron's (author of "An Artist's Way") suggestion to make Artist Dates with yourself. I believe she suggested doing this on a weekly basis. The idea sounded lovely. Until I got home.

My life is occupied. I wake up early so I can write, do my puzzles, banking, tend to cat litter and the odd household task and make any outbound calls that are necessary before I must step out of the house and begin the day. 

My days are long. I don't get home until 7:30 p.m. most days. Later, if I have an errand to run. Since my wake-up time is at 5:00 a.m., I don't have much life in me at the end of each day. I am normally in bed by or before 9:00 p.m. Weekdays are not a day to set aside for an Artist's Date.

Then come the weekends. I fritter away a lot of my time on weekends. I can lose myself in the mundane. I get caught up on Netflix, Facebook scrolling, YouTube videos that are at the end of an Internet search which leads me astray. This could and should be a perfect time to make a date with myself to nurture my inner artist. But it isn't.

I like to have the ability to simply go with the flow on weekends. I don't love making plans which encroach on my days off. I like to follow wherever the road leads. As a rule, when one thing falls naturally into the next and the next without a schedule and time restraints, it results in the best unplanned sequence of events one could ever hope for. The best part is that you don't "hope" for anything at all. Because there has been no set up to allow space for a let down. 

Add to this fact, my love for simply being home. I don't want to go places, do things or leave this most wonderful "nest" I live in. Home is where I want to be. I must force myself out of it five days of the week. I don't want to book time away from the place I most want to be.

Which brings me to "yesterday". Yesterday, I was on a quest to find a picture I knew I had which was within the many boxes of pictures, mementos, cards/letters, bits of history and other miscellaneous items of Mom's I have not yet sorted and organized.

I knew exactly where to find the picture I was looking for. It was in a photo box where Mom once told one of her great-grandchildren, was where she stored her most special pictures. This prophecy continues to be fulfilled. Mom's photo box IS filled with pictures that are special to me. This little box was stored within a huge Rubbermaid container full of other photos, etc, etc, etc.

I pushed, pulled, carried and dragged this heavy box upstairs yesterday morning and parked it in "Mom's room" with a purpose.

"Mom's room" is one of the most unused rooms in our home. The door is closed so the cats don't scratch the couch or shed needlessly throughout the room. The room is filled with items I received from Mom's home. This is the room where I want to display family pictures. The room is filled with a sense of serenity.

As soon as I found this box, I made a date with myself. An Artist's Date.

I will pack up and move into this room-with-a-door this upcoming weekend. On whatever day opens itself up to the opportunity. I will set myself up as if I was away from home. I will pack up nourishment for the day, coffee and all the comforts of home. Then I will close the door and immerse myself in memories, photographs, bits and pieces of "Mom" and the history within the box.

I have photo albums, picture frames, pretty boxes, clear 3-ringed sleeves where I can organize bits of memories and history into a binder. I shall open the box full of special photographs and begin. 

I shall make a date with myself, for myself, by myself in "Mom's Room". A room with a door.

P.S. No cell phones allowed! I will be out of service and out of range during this date.

Just Be You

This was the quote that spoke to me this morning:

"Just be you ... and if people don't like it, find new people"

Perhaps it was the picture that accompanied the quote - a picture of a little girl with black rimmed glasses that magnified her eyes and at first glance, her hair looked untamed and a little wild (at second glance, her hair looks just fine). 

The picture reminded me of a young version of me, feeling absolutely beautiful, with leotards on my head (in my make believe world, the leotards were my long and flowing hair), wearing Mom's high heel shoes. I remember the disappointment I felt when that picture was developed. I thought I was beautiful. I couldn't believe the ugly little girl the camera captured. It was akin to listening to my actual singing voice on a tape recorder many years later.

I thought of the picture. It was taken in the days when it cost money for every picture on the roll of film. One didn't take excessive pictures in those days. What was Mom thinking when she allowed precious, hard earned cash to develop this picture?

What was she thinking??

Was she amused? Did I ask her to take the picture? Did she realize I would regret having this picture taken? Did she think I was beautiful too? What was going on in her mother-brain when she captured this image? Did she know"this" would be the picture I keep coming back to in my adult years? The years where I continue to battle the feeling that the inner me doesn't match the outer me?

My memory of myself in this picture is actually much, much worse than the reality. Now that I've grown up and have a little better sense of who I am, this photo doesn't bother me. I'm glad I have it. It marks a significant memory of who I was and who I dreamed I could be.

In the same stack of photos, I found this one right along beside the uglier version of myself:

It was the Christmas I wanted a nurse hat more than anything else (it is hard to see it here, but I am quite certain that is what is on my head). I think Mom made me a nurse outfit too - I recall conversations where it is said the only thing I wanted for Christmas that year was a nurse hat and a Penny Brite doll.

The memories of conversations between Mom and my sister about this particular Christmas sift through my mind as I write. The memories aren't mine but as I Googled Penny Brite's image, I found a picture of Penny Brite sitting at a school desk with a blackboard. I'm pretty sure my Penny Brite came with these accessories. If so, I do have an original memory to go with the stories I've heard.

I have been falling in and out of liking myself, my life and questioning "What's next?" a lot these days. Part of me feels a little bit lost. Not really lost. Just wandering. 

I've lost my dreams. I've lost my childlike innocence I felt when these pictures were taken. I dreamed of becoming a nurse. I had forgotten.

"Just Be You ..." 

These are the words that spoke to me this morning. These words have taken me down memory lane and have rekindled a childlike memory of what it felt like to "just be me".

Even though I was a shy, reserved little child I remember feeling something inside of myself that was begging to be seen. I'm grateful for the pictures Mom took to help me remember the confidence I felt inside, despite the side of myself the world saw.

Rekindling the Fire

I have been scrolling through this Sunday morning trying very hard not to drop down yet another Internet rabbit hole and lose myself and the day along with it. I have given myself until 10:00 a.m. and then I have made the decision to do "one hard thing" for as long as I can do it.

It is a writing assignment I started about a year ago. It was a promise to rewrite some travel journals, put them in date order and make the timeline easy to follow. The purpose was to reignite old memories, stir up new conversations and create a tangible piece of history to have and to hold.

Our thoughts, our memories and the way we retell our stories change over the course of time. There is something about taking a "snapshot" of those words written as one is living them, without a thought these journals may come to mean in the future.

When I reread my old thoughts, written as I was living them, there is something very poignant and raw about the truths behind the written word. Flashes of memories, feelings and perspective ping around within my mind and I am taken back in time.

Holding onto our memories is a gift. Having that history recorded in a journal, pictures or videos is kindling and has the power to reignite the moment.

I'm going to go "start a fire" this morning. It is my hope by completing this little project, it may be the kindling I need to finish other tasks I have only just begun.