Loving Christmas

You've seen this pic before, but still...

My mom loved Christmas. She always made sure our Christmases were beautiful, no matter how many other things she may have been juggling, no matter how much stress she might have been "managing." Like the year she took our live tree into the basement and spray-painted it white.

I'm sure Dad helped her lug it up and down the stairs, but he would have been grumbling the entire time about why the hell we needed a white tree. Never mind. I knew Mom had seen one somewhere and admired it. She'd said "I can do that," and then set out to do it.

I remember seeing it standing on the dirt floor of our Michigan basement. (Yes, that's a thing.) We didn't go down there much, but painting a Christmas tree was a special event. Mom made us go upstairs, though, when she started spraying. The next thing I remember was seeing it in the living room, where Dad put on the lights--with much direction--and Mom hung the string of pink glass beads. I thought those beads were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. They had been in Dad's family for years, and I always suspected that they'd once been red. Pink was better, though.

If we short people were allowed to help with the other decorations, I'm sure some rearranging was performed after we went to sleep. Mom was an artist, and in charge of her own masterpieces, as displayed in the photo.

Look at those dolls...the doll house...the buggies! (Oh, and the stuffed kangaroo for brother Mark. When we were kids, it was definitely better to be a girl.)

Mom grew up during the depression. Her father was an immigrant from Malta, and there were six kids in the family. She never received a doll for Christmas. She told us stories of getting new socks and underwear. That would explain her life-long passion for dolls. My sisters and I always had the most beautiful dolls she could find. Later, she became a doll artist herself, creating exquisite works of art in porcelain.

As a mother and grandmother, Mom enjoyed Christmas as much as the most enthusiastic kid. Later today, when I bring down the boxes of ornaments, I will be reminded many times over what the season meant to her. I will play her CD's and be surrounded by memories as I decorate our tree, hoping that she would be pleased.

Merry Christmas, Mom. And thank you.

Motherly Advice

Mom holding me...1952



My mom gave lots of advice -- most of it good, as I'm now able to admit. I didn't always feel that way, though. In fact, for most of my adult life, I arrogantly resented her unsolicited words of wisdom. (How wrong I was.)

Ah, Mom...

Today would be her 83rd birthday, but we won't be celebrating with her. She died 12 years ago. Contrary to what I've read in self-help bereavement books, I shouldn't be able to remember the sound of her voice, but I do. I can also remember many of her words...

"Hold your head up high, and act like you have every right to be there." She would say this whenever one of us felt shy about having to step outside of our comfort zone -- i.e., home.

"Don't worry what other people might think of you. Just be yourself." Again, when we were feeling intimidated about having to speak up for ourselves.

"Make your bed and do the breakfast dishes first thing. Then, if someone asks you to go someplace, you can go with a clear conscience." (Of course, it went without saying that you should also apply fresh lipstick and make sure you had on clean underwear.)

Most of all, I remember the last words of advice Mom gave me. They stung, because I knew she was right. They came after she'd "almost" died in the hospital.

My sisters and brothers and I all agreed that Mom must have gone someplace the rest of us had never been that day, because she came back to us a changed person. Where there had been sort of an invisible armor around her, making her seem untouchable, she was now open and childlike. She looked at us in a new way, too. Not as though life with six kids had beaten her down, but as if she were really seeing us and appreciating each one of us for who we were. We were all happy to have the opportunity to get to know this new, softer version of our mom.

Giddy with relief at still having her with us, we were all there in her not-so-intensive-care room, trying to outdo each other in our efforts to make Mom laugh. And we were all winning. Then I missed something that Mom had said...

"What?" I asked.

She looked at me -- really looked at me -- and said, not unkindly,

"You should listen the first time."

At that moment, I could feel how exasperating it must have been for her, all those years of me rushing ahead, my mouth immediately following my mind, never being fully in whatever the moment was. I felt ashamed and sorry. But I know that she forgave me. And I have tried -- really, really tried, sometimes -- to follow the advice that my mom gave me just a few days before she died.

And even when I fail, I'm glad that I can still remember when she told me.

Our Own Rose

My mom with Bev, Karen, Mark and me, in front of our house on Bowers Road. If this was taken in 1960, as I think it was, then she was pregnant with Melissa, and Jason was still 12 years from making an appearance!

Mom died eleven years ago today. I recently found the notebook I used as a journal as we spent her last days in the hospital, all my sisters, my brothers and myself. Of course we were sad, but it was also an amazing, healing time for us all.

What did I write? Weirdly, I wrote limericks and haikus. Maybe someday I'll share them here. But now I want to share this, for my sisters and brothers. I guess it's a poem. I called it "Tribute to a Rose," and it's dated March 6, 2001 -- the day after her funeral...

My mother is a rose,
The most beautiful of flowers.
So many different varieties,
All beautiful, all difficult to nurture.

In death, I see her as a pale pink rose, my favorite --
Exquisitely, heartbreakingly beautiful,
Soft, open to love -- both giving and accepting.

In life, she was a red rose --
The American Beauty.
Classical beauty, grace and style,
A true "lady" of a flower.

At times, something inside of her would cause her petals to deepen to burgundy --
Some inner, troubled darkness.
Still very beautiful, but somewhat disturbing to behold.

Our rose didn't always receive the special care she required.
Although her beauty was always evident,
At times her thorns predominated, making her difficult to tend to.

But in her final illness, we were at last able to give to her
What she needed to receive, and what we needed to give.
The proud, dark petals, and along with them, the thorns,
Fell away, revealing a new softness.

Now she is a beautiful, pale pink rose.
My favorite flower.
I will try to nurture the seeds that she planted in each of her children,
That we might also become like flowers in God's garden.

(Sure do miss you, Mom.)

Mom...

January 27 -- Happy Birthday, Mom...



(My Mom, Rosemary Borg Karlek, and Me, 1952)



...I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you...Not just today...All the time.

I hope -- I mean, I know -- you know how much I love you and miss you.

You also know I'm a grandma now, too, don't you? That means you're a great-grandma! But then you already were a great grandma -- Just ask Meagan and Dj...any of the kids!

But of course, I'm talking about Charlie -- Charlotte Rose. I just love that she has your name as her middle name. (And that I do, too.) I remember the day Meagan was born, and you came in to see me just before I was wheeled away. I saw such love and concern on your face that I impulsively wanted to change our girl's middle name from Day to Rose. (It remained Meagan Day, but I'm so glad that Meagan chose Rose for her Charlie.)

I know you and Dad would both love the stuffing out of that baby girl -- who's now one year old! (She almost shared your birthday, too!) I always imagine myself telling you about all the silly, funny, sweet things she does, and I can hear your laugh so clearly...

There are so many ways I wish I were more like you, Mom, but that's one way I am like you -- You loved babies -- everything about them!

I think Meagan finds it a little strange that I love Charlie's feet so much, but I remember how you used to say that babies' feet are like fat little pin cushions. (Actually, I think maybe you said Grandma Karlek said that. And I guess it is a rather disturbing comparison. But you mentioned it because we were having a conversation about how adorable babies' feet are, and I remembered it!)

Oh, Mom, if you were here, what a celebration we would have for you and Charlie!

I miss you so much, I still cry sometimes, even though it's been almost ten years. I love when I dream about spending a day with you...In my dreams, we're always shopping and going out to lunch -- And there's always dessert!

We'll have birthday cake for Charlie on Sunday, Mom, and I'll be enjoying mine for you, too.

I don't have to say more, because you know...I love you forever and am so grateful for everything you are and have always been!

The Butterfly Connection

"Blue Butterfly," August, 2009, Kate's LRDC

Please use your imagaination on this one...i.e., imagine that you are listening to a beautiful symphony, or Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" (my preference), if you will, as you watch the beautiful butterfly lift and lower its wings. Because if I were more techno-savvy, I would be able to figure out how to have that happen for you. Then you wouldn't have to listen to the cars passing by in front of the house as you watch my little video clip. (Yes, I will accept applause and other accolades for figuring out how to upload the video...but I must share credit for that with my talented fellow-blogger, Liz Abruzzo (http://humaneegoist.blogspot.com)...I remembered, Liz!)

Now, on to the blog...

Today (February 25) marks the ninth anniversary of the day my mother died. It was winter then, as it is now. Girl Scout cookies had just been delivered, same as this year. It was a cold, rainy day, brightened only slightly by the cookies, just like many days we've recently had. But late that Sunday afternoon, as our family headed to the hospital after receiving word that Mom had died (It was my beautiful Meagan who called us...She was the one Grandma chose to share her special moment with), the sun broke through and began working on our broken hearts...

Of course we haven't stopped missing Mom, haven't stopped thinking of her, hearing her voice or her laugh at least once a day. We cry less now, although that does still happen. Time has made it easier, as they say. It doesn't lessen the missing part -- It's just that the muscles that you use for missing get stronger, and less tender, I guess.

Somehow we got through the rest of that winter.

I remember playing tennis with some friends on one of the first beautiful spring days we had in April. The sun was so warm and the air so clean. I remember consciously thinking, I feel good!, surprising myself by doing so.

I don't remember anything about the tennis; it would probably be fair to say I was not a "winner." But still, I felt good! As I was getting into my car, one of my friends walked over to me and said, "Kate, I don't know what it is, but I have to tell you...when I look at you, I see you surrounded by butterflies!"

I got a lump in my throat, knowing it had something to do with Mom. I called Donna when I got home to tell her that my mom had recently died, and I felt that the butterflies she saw must somehow be connected to the good feeling I had had on the courts. She reminded me then that butterflies are a spiritual medium...

Ever since that day, whenever I see a butterfly, I know my mom sent it.

That is why I was so pleased to be able to capture this one with my Little Red Digital Camera last summer. I wanted to share it. I wish I could also share some beautiful music...

A Day for Mothers

Today is Mother's Day, so of course I'm missing my mom. After all, this is the day we're supposed to honor our moms by taking them out to brunch (or lunch or dinner) and buying them gifts and cards that tell them how much we love them and that we appreciate the way they gave up their entire lives so that we could feel safe and loved. More than anything else, I wish my mom were still here today so I could do those things for her...

But I've been particularly blessed in the Mom Department. In addition to my own mom, I was given a Mother-in-Law who is as close to perfect as a real person can ever come!

Hilma and Kate, Hodgin Valley Farm, 9/21/07 (by Karen Branson)

I have loved my Hilma-Mom ever since I "officially" met her, which was on the occasion of my first date with My Awesome Husband Greg. Of course I knew who she was before that -- MAHG's family lived next door to some friends of my family. But the night that Greg took me to the mall to buy a record player for his family, then back to his house to pick up a "book" he wanted me to try, was the first time I was actually introduced to Hilma. She was working third shift then, so she had been sleeping on the couch; but when she heard us come in, she sat up and acted as if she'd been expecting us all evening. (That's one of the things I love most about her -- the way she makes people feel as if she's there just for them, no matter what else may be going on around her.)

At times I have felt like I've been a disappointment to Hilma, but certainly no more than I was to my own mom. And although I may have disappointed her, she has never made me feel that she didn't love me anyway. (That's another thing I love about her -- Her kindness.)

Having been part of MAHG's family for 35 years now, I have so many memories that most of them have been relegated to the "lower stacks" of my brain's library. But there's one Hilma Moment that I'll always keep on the shelf so I can go to it and re-feel the love whenever I need to...

It was the first Thanksgiving after my mom had died. Hilma and her Awesome Husband Leo had come for the weekend. As usual, I had underestimated the amount of time needed to get the house ready for company (i.e., scrubbed and dusted, piles moved from the main traffic areas for safety). I had also underestimated the amount of time it would take Papa Leo to drive from Florida to North Carolina. Therefore, I was still dusting and stashing stuff in our dining room (I don't know why it was ever called that, actually -- It makes a perfect Idon'tknowwhereelsetoputthis room) when the two them walked in.

That was no problem, of course -- One of Hilma's gifts is her ease in any situation. No need for me to feel awkward...She just sat down in the rocking chair and kept me company as I shoved stuff around on the desk, trying to make it look like someone actually noticed the room once in a while. We started talking about my mom -- this was probably the first time we'd actually been together since Mom had died -- and Hilma was just letting me ramble on, wherever my memories took me. (Perhaps her greatest gift of all is that she's an awesome listener.) I don't remember what I was saying. I just remember that at one point she stood up and said, "Oh, Kate, can I give you a hug now?"

I'm sure that moment was just one of many like it for My Awesome Mother-in-Law -- a moment when she reached out and gave someone just exactly what was needed. I don't think I've ever told her this, but for me, that was perhaps the best hug I'd ever received.

For that, Hilma, and for all of the other things I've forgotten (and remember), I thank you, and I love you!

And Mom, of course I'm remembering you, too, and would give just about anything to be able to hear your voice and see your smile. You know, don't you? I love you...

Rosemary with Kate, 1952

Note to My Awesome Sisters Who May Be Reading this: It's OK to cry, you know.

Mom's Anniversary Blog/A Guest Blog

"Mom Sampler" completed by Kate in 2002. (It was actually intended as a wedding sampler for someone else, but it took too long and there was a divorce before it was finished...then Mom died...Perhaps it will become the cover of a photo album someday.)

It's been eight years now -- that's so hard to believe!

I'm calling this A Guest Blog because I'm lifting material from scrapbooks that my Awesome Sister Karen has done for us...

This is from a page she called "Always Cherish." She included several photographs of my niece and nephews, Avery, Alex and Max, and one of a sign roughly lettered on a wooden board. The sign reads "Rosemary Pond." I don't have the photos for you, but here's her text:

Rosemary Pond, such an innocent activity for the cousins, such an emotional moment for my sister, Missy, and me.

Max and I were visiting Alex and Avery, and the three of them were outside playing in the sandpile, as usual. Missy and I were on the deck visiting. After some time, the kids came running up to take us back to the sandpile and show us what they had been working on for so long.

There in front of us was Rosemary Pond, a work of art they had lovingly constructed, complete with a hand-lettered sign and roses strewn all about...all for Grammy Rose, my mother, their grandmother, who had died in late February. Though children don't always let you know what is on their minds, their actions demonstrated they were thinking about their grammy. I hope they will always cherish those memories of the woman who loved them so much. (July 2001)

Then, from another scrapbook done more recently -- since my dad died last January -- here's a page she put together called "Angel Parents:"

In case you can't see what she's done, she's taken photos -- me with my mom and my sister, Bev, with my dad --and put angel wings on Mom and Dad.

There. I knew I was going to cry today. But speaking of crying, here's a quote from someone else...

(I've used this before in my blog. It's from Philip Beard in his book Dear Zoe, which I blogged about on Jan. 24 and Feb. 5):

"...sometimes I still miss you so much it feels like someone is pushing their finger into the base of my throat and I cry like it just happened yesterday. But now when I cry like that it kind of feels like it cleans me out, and each time it happens it feels like I'm going to have a little longer until it happens again and usually I do. It's not that I'm missing you less. It's more like I'm finding a place to keep you."

I feel like that's what we've done now...We've found a safe place to keep Mom, although we still cry.

There are so many memories that come back today...Pages of journal entries written by my sister, Missy, and me, during the weeks that Mom was in the hospital...More memories recorded afterwards, as we tried to incorporate her death into our lives. (More difficult than I had imagined.) But today I'm finding that I don't want to read through those pages. I don't want to write about that today.

Oh, okay -- Maybe there is one thing...

I think I've mentioned once or twice that one of the last things Mom said to me was "You should listen the first time." Well, apparently, after several years had passed, I felt ready to honor that quote with a limerick. I found this, and I'd like to share it with you now:

It's exactly four years today --

Not long before she went away --

That my little mom said

From her hospital bed,

"You should listen the first time, ok?"

I can still hear her soft reprimand,

And I wish I could still touch her hand

And tell her I know;

It's hard for me, though,

'Cause my ears may have other things planned.

(2/23/05)

(I'm still working on it, Mom.)

I hope you know how much we all love you and miss you!

Mom's Birthday Blog

Photo of Pink Roses from "Webshots," 1/27/09

Today would be my mom's 79th birthday. I can't picture what she would look like. She had just celebrated her 71st birthday one month before she died. She looked beautiful then, in spite of having been in the hospital (with no access to her makeup, wardrobe and hairdresser -- not even a mirror) for a month! I'm sure she's still beautiful -- I just can't picture her.

I have no trouble at all, however, picturing her at different times in my life...

I remember sitting in our living room when I was a kid, watching her laugh delightedly as she shot rubber darts at the newspaper my dad was holding up in front of his face. All of us kids were just sitting there, watching and enjoying her laughter. (I suppose she had confiscated the dart gun from one of us, but I can't imagine where we would have gotten it; it wasn't the kind of thing Mom would have brought home.)

It was unusual for Mom to engage in such Tom-foolery. (Yes, the pun was totally intended, heh-heh. I crack myself up sometimes.) I suppose that's why my dad just sighed and put his paper back up every time her dart sent it flying from his grip. Even though he tried to look disgruntled, he was enjoying the game, too.

I remember Mom's laugh. (Not that I can describe it for you -- I just remember it.) I also remember how her voice sounded in all of its different strengths and volumes. That's noteworthy only because ever since I read in a book shortly after she had died that you forget a loved one's voice after about three years, I've been waiting to forget. But I remember -- and I'm glad.

I remember how uncomfortable she looked (only as I think back) when she took me to the Miss Michigan Pageant when I was 18 or 19. She did that for me. She didn't complain, or let on that she felt awkward and out of place. I only realized years later, as I remembered. And I loved her more than ever for it, because I also felt awkward and out of place. But I took courage -- perhaps even a little bit of confidence -- from my mom. The best thing -- the only good thing -- that came from the experience was the closeness I felt with her. And that I remember.

I remember the worried look on her face the day I was wheeled into the operating room to have Meagan delivered. I had never seen her look that way. She was positively gray with worry. (Some of that might have been from the early hour and the gray coat she was wearing, but that's what I remember.) Mom worked very hard at appearing never to lose her calm, always to be in control. Years later, when I commented on that particular memory, she denied that she had been worried. (See what I mean?) But I knew. And I was touched.

And that's what I remember most about Mom during her last month with us in the hospital -- That we were allowed to see her vulnerable, human side. For some reason, she had lived her life thinking that she needed to always be strong, invincible. For the same reason that I can remember the times when she laughed playfully, I can also remember the times she cried in front of us -- They were few and far between.

Among the memories of Mom's last weeks, I think the ones we treasure most are the ones of her as our "Baby-Bird Mom" -- how she somehow became small and delicate, and how she needed us, whereas before, she had always seemed larger-than-life and completely self-sufficient.

We've all talked about how it felt during that time, when we realized that she was really looking at us -- right through our eyes, and into our hearts -- and when she told us what she loved about us. It was the same Mom that we'd always loved, but a different Mom than we were used to. It allowed us to love -- and and to remember -- her in a different way.

I once read a description of the rose as being the most difficult flower in the garden, needing lots of attention and nurturing. (And of course there are those thorns!) But its beauty makes it well worth the trouble. I think that aptly describes our Mom-Rose.

Just as choosing a birthday gift for Mom always presented a special challenge -- finding something that would make her feel loved and appreciated -- so thinking about what I would write today has had some blog-clogging potential. I know that my sisters (maybe even my brothers?) will read it, so I'm writing for them. I don't want to make anyone feel sad. In fact, in hoping to make them smile, I have searched for a poem I wrote on Mom's birthday the year before she died. I couldn't find it, but I do remember the first verse:

Of all the moms I've ever known,

You're the very best.

As a matter of fact, compared to you,

I don't even like the rest!

You'd probably have to be related to us to think that's funny, but trust me -- it was when I wrote it! I remember how Mom laughed when she read it. That's a precious-good memory.

I feel blessed to have so many good memories of you, Mom. I love you, and miss you. I try to hold onto every dream I have about you, because they bring you back in a very real way. I'm sorry if this makes anyone who reads it sad. I guess that's just the way it is.

(I do appreciate your reading it, though.)

In Praise of Prednisone

Kate Fischer, Christmas 2007 (by Greg Fischer)

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If you're like me, the very word "prednisone" strikes fear into your heart. At least that's the way I used to be, before I actually tried it...

You see, years ago, my mother was diagnosed with Hodgkins Disease, and her doctors prescribed prednisone. I was in my early 20's then, and typically self-involved. It was pretty hard for someone else to grab my attention and hold onto it for very long...

I do remember, however, being extremely concerned when, as a result of the chemotherapy treatments that were also prescribed for Mom, she lost her hair. And I recall that she felt really awful for what seemed like a very long time. But what I mostly remember is that for years afterwards, she talked about the terrible things prednisone had done to her (i.e., destroyed her immune system, making her extremely vulnerable to whatever nasty bug or virus was in season). In my mind, the drug became worse than the disease...

Not any more, though. Now I have my own prescription for the "Big P," and apparently it's not my mother's prednisone! True, it may be destroying my immune system, even as I type this testimonial, insidiously weakening my bones and planting little cataracts in my eyeballs. But the patient-information pamphlet that comes with the pills informs me that if my doctor did not think the benefits outweighed the risks in my case, he would not have prescribed prednisone. And he was so right!

Let me describe some the marvelous benefits I am reaping, now that I have worked my way up to 40 mg per day of this marvelous wonder-drug:

- Prednisone is an anti-inflammatory. That means no more stiff, aching joints when I get up in the morning. I hit the floor running -- mostly because prednisone makes it unnecessary to sleep much -- but also because I know it's not going to hurt!

- Prednisone is an anti-depressant. It must be -- I'm positively manic these days!

- Prednisone is a stimulant. See above.

- Prednisone is a mood-enhancer. It makes me love everybody!

- Prednisone is a stress-reliever. Probably because it's all of the above. Who could feel stressed when they're pain-free, happy and stimulated?

- And last, but not least (the reason I was given my very own prescription in the first place) prednisone is a breath of fresh air! I almost forgot to mention that for the first time in two years, I am able to fill my lungs all the way to the top without coughing and sputtering. I can talk aerobically (can you?) without choking on my words. And I can read out loud for as long as I like without having to continually down cough drops. (I can also sing again, but I still can't carry a tune. I guess the drug does have its limitations.)

No, indeed. This is not my mother's prednisone. And I am not my mother. (Sigh.) My mother did not trust drugs, and after her Hodgkins ordeal, seldom took anything stronger than Tylenol. I, on the other hand (although I do try to limit the drugs that I take), seem to really, really like the ones that I allow myself!

So ask your doctor. Prednisone is not for everyone. But for people like me, well...I'll cross the withdrawal bridge when I come to it.

Meanwhile, if your doctor says it it's ok for you, then I invite you to join me for a very merry prednisone holdiay -- just think of how much you'll be able to get done!

My Mom Dream

Mom/Gramma Rose (center) with Meagan and Kate, Thanksgiving 2000 (by Greg)

I know that I have mentioned my dad several times in this blog; my mom, not so much. Probably because Mom has been gone a lot longer -- almost eight years now. I guess I'm just used to her being on the inside of me now, instead of on the outside. (We're all still getting used to Dad's new place.)

This picture was taken on our last Thanksgiving with Mom. She died the following February. I had a another dream about her last week. (Interestingly, I dream about Mom a lot, but I have yet to have a dream about my dad. I wonder why.)

I wrote down what I could remember of my dream, because I felt like it was important. Unfortunately, although I remember feeling that it made sense in the context of what had happened that day, I can no longer remember what that was. Also, the words I wrote on that little yellow slip of paper are doing nothing for me at this point as far as re-creating my dream. I wrote:

Mom. Crowded shopping, My purse $3.00, Hold Mom's expensive purse, Bathroom.

Honestly, I haven't got a clue!

Well, actually, there are a few clues here -- clues to the way I perceived my mom anyway...Shopping was one of our favorite things to do together. Most of the dreams I have about Mom involve shopping. So this trip involved crowded shopping conditions. (I do remember that it was some sort of an outdoor market, and I remember that that made sense when I first awakened. Alas, not any more.)

I must have had $3.00 in my purse. Typical. But I probably thought I had more. (In fact, I'm probably still convinced that there's a $20 bill safely tucked away in some forgotten compartment, just waiting to be discovered.) But maybe, together with the next part about holding Mom's expensive purse, the $3.00 notation simply means that my purse was cheap by comparison -- like $3.00 on sale. (I have bought purses in the $3.00 price range, while Mom's tastes -- in purses as in everything else -- tended to be a little more expensive.)

Clearly, then, Mom asked me hold her expensive purse while she went to the bathroom. Or maybe I went to the bathroom. I seem to remember being in the bathroom at this open-air market. I also remember Mom's purse. I thought it was ugly, being made of four different kinds of leather that didn't really go together. Expensive leather, but not attractive. (She probably got her purse on sale, too. But she would have paid at least $10.00.)

Well, if you're still reading at this point, were you hoping that in writing about my dream, I would come to some sort of an Oprah Ah-ha Moment that would explain it all? Me too. Apparently that's not gonna happen. (Sigh. Maybe I'll have another Mom dream soon.)

**********

Thanksgiving (and the start of that whole Holiday Season thing) is a big time for missing our loved ones who live on the inside, even as we stress out about getting together with the ones who still live on the outside. I guess that's human nature -- the stress part, I mean. We'll be with my brother Mark and his family. My Michigan sisters and brother -- and our step-mom/friend, Betty, will be with us, too, because we'll be together in missing Mom and Dad. Maybe we'll have a chance to share some of our memories over the telephone.

This Thanksgiving -- our first without Dad -- is going to be a sad one. But I know there'll be laughter, too. And I know Mom and Dad will be with all of us, in Michigan and North Carolina. They can do that when they live on the inside, you know.

When I'm ready, I may write an entire week's worth of posts about my Mom. Things I remember about our times together, dreams I've had, conversations I continue to have with her. I have pages and pages of journal entries to which I can refer. For now, though, I just wish I could hear the back door open, catch a whiff of her perfume (her most recent favorite was Pleasures), hear her footsteps and her soft voice saying, "Hello? Anybody home?)