The wheels just keep on turning

"Is she ever sad?" I asked. "In class?"

Nothing.

The Elder Boy gave me a look that was so coy my Lovely Bride said to me, "That's a look of denial."

I nodded my head in agreement as she walked out of the room.

The Elder Boy's coy smile made me think of a guy I haven't thought of in over twenty five years. John T. His Dad died when we were in second grade.

"You know, when I was in second grade," I said, "I had a teacher named Mrs. Lear who was old and mean. There was a kid in my class. His Dad died that year. One day we did something in class that made him sad and he started to cry. At some point he got up and went to the front of the class, and climbed up onto Mrs. Lear's lap, and cried for a long time while she held him. I think she even cried some. After that I didn't think she was so mean anymore."

Nothing. Just that coy smile.

"I can still remember that like it was yesterday," I said mainly to myself. "And I was your age."

The night before at a PTA Chili Cook-Off the Elder Boy had been running crazy in the gym with a little girl in hot pursuit. There was no doubt that this little girl was sweet on the Boy. I watched them running amok as The Little Warrior and I played his version of basketball. Every time E and the girl ran by I was struck by the fact that this little girl looked like someone I knew. Only I couldn't quite place who.

Later that evening while eating entry #10's chili it dawned on me that the little girl looked like the young daughter of one of my olden golden friends. A guy I grew up with in Sand Springs and later lived with in Dallas. This little girl chasing E all over the gym looked like his little girl, who looked a lot like my friend did when we were kids living in the same neighborhood.

Later still, while eating entry #12's chili my Lovely Bride walked by so I asked, "Who's the little girl chasing E all over the gym?"

"That's (Insert the Little girl's name,)" she said.

Weird, i thought. Not only does she look like my friend's daughter, they have the same first name.

I was about to share all of this with My Lovely Bride when she said something that stopped me cold.

"She's the one whose Mom just died of cancer."

Fuck me.

My friend, who has the daughter who looks like, and shares the same name as this little girl lost his Mom to cancer when we were in grade school.

I still remember when we heard his Mom had died. We were on vacation in Steam Boat Springs, Colorado when someone from our neighborhood who worked with my Mom called and told us.

Losing his Mom, defined my friend, in many ways, for years.

Much Later still, I was back in the gym with all of the kids, while Wy shot baskets and E played happily with this little girl. I was looking at her as she ran by when my Lovely Bride walked up from behind and put her arms around me.

"I wondered who that handsome man nice enough to be in here with all the kids was," she said into my ear.

Nothing. Unlike the Elder Boy though, my version of nothing comes with a head nod of acknowledgement.

"(Insert our Friend from this Entry) mentioned she got a shout out on the BLOG," My Lovely Bride said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I hadn't been on the BLOG in awhile."

"Oh." I said.

This BLOG is funny. My Lovely Bride hits it sporadically, to see what I've been putting out there for the world to read. However we don't talk about it around the house all that much. Most of the time she knows the story, having lived it. Then there are the times My Lovely Bride learns what I was thinking or feeling in a situation the same as you, right there, right now, reading this entry does.

"(Insert our Friend from this Entry) said she shared the BLOG with a friend who lost her Mom to cancer when she was young," she said.

Nothing. Just the nod.

"It's the same I guess. Whether you are four. Or six. Or..."

41, I thought to myself.

"...You never really get over it. It stays with you. It gets easier. But you never get all the way over it," she said.

Nothing. Just the nod and a coy smile that I'm sure was a carbon copy of the one the Elder Boy would give me the next morning.

Until I BLOG again...The drummer begins to drum .

Wild Youth

I decided to take my annual backing up photos up a notch this year and create a slideshow using some of my favorites.

Until I BLOG again...wild wild wild youth!

I wonder what's gonna happen to you

I know many take comfort in the thought that a departed loved one is watching over them, in a guardian angel sort of way. I do not. To be perfectly honest that thought bugs the shit out of me, and has always caused me more consternation than comfort.

Looking back, I know that this curious quirk has always been part of my make-up, my nature, although I was lucky enough in my youth to not lose anyone close enough for it to fully rear it's ugly head. That is until my Mom's Dad died.

His death was disturbing to me, because as I said, it was the first time someone that close to me had died. It also didn't come gently. He wasted away from heart problems in what was his living room (fuck you irony) on the sofa while I was trying to adjust to being a freshman in college and being away from home for the first time. Those were strange days indeed. But my point is this. I found myself alone, often thinking about my dead Grandpa and my fucked up version of what is beyond this life. That could be a whole BLOG post in and of itself, so I won't go there today. I'll just say this: it is very contradictory that I obsessed so much considering I wasn't (and am still not) sure what I believed regarding all that. But back to my point which is this. I spent a lot of time sitting by myself and thinking about my dead Grandpa watching me from beyond.

At first this thought, as I'm sure it does for many, gave me comfort. I figured, if I was in trouble, he could help me. Awesome.

Then, my black and white nature revealed itself and I realized if he could watch me when I needed help, he could also watch me whenever he wanted. Not so awesome. That meant he could watch me when I was doing things I'd rather him not watch, dead or alive.

Trust me. I know how screwy this sounds, but if I'm honest I have to admit that back in that day I was what amounted to a fucked up honky version of Rockwell stumbling around the OU campus.

Over time I got this quirk under control or so I thought. Lie in wait is more like it. Waiting for another person close to me, my Mom, to die in her living room. In fact, my first relapse occurred a few days before she died.

At that point in our story she was a slack jawed, wide eyed, catatonic wasted shell of her former self and I was her #1 son (her expression, not mine, made funnier by the fact that I'm an only child) dealing with the business of her death.

It was while price shopping her cremation arrangements (seriously,) that I asked myself if she could see or hear me doing this surreal exercise? The 'What to expect when you are expecting (someone close to you to die) book' said that she could, see and hear me, even if she couldn't communicate. It suggested that I talk to her. Normally. As well as watch what was said in front of her regarding her impending death so as to not scare her, or make the process stressful. That could make her cling to life longer. Fear and unfinished business. Which is kind of funny if you think about it. I didn't want her to die.

Again, I digress. The point is this: I was thinking about If she could see or hear me as I had heated discussions with the various funeral homes over what I felt were their bullshit business practice of price gouging bereaved families.

Seriously. Dig this. One place would charge $7,000 for what another charged $3,000, which made no sense considering that both places used the same ovens to cremate.

Three places tried to convince me to embalm my Mom, even though I had stated at the beginning of our conversation that she didn't want to have a viewing, thus there was no need for this additional $1,000 expense.

Two places tried to sell me a fancy casket, even though I was discussing cremation, with the dyno seal (so the worms don't get in I guess) that would have cost thousands of dollars without disclosing the fact that a person is cremated in a nondescript cardboard type box that I believe ended up costing $40. I don't even want to think about what they do with these gently used coffins they end up keeping.

I was on the phone for a long time that day, trying to keep my voice low, and not get mad, so what was left of my Mom would not hear what was being discussed in the other room, and could die peacefully.

As if.

While I was handling the business of Mom's death, my Dad was busily sanding the front door so he could paint it red less than three feet away from Mom's hospital bed. This might sound odd, until you consider that he had promised Mom a new red front door and he was trying to make good on his promise.

He finished that door four hours before she died. I wonder if Barbara Karnes would consider a honey-do item unfinished business?

As it turns out, Dad taking care of what I considered strange business was a recurring theme in the days following Mom's death and the perfect opportunity for my quirk to rear it's ugly head.

It was impossible for me to not think about Mom watching us do things I'd rather her not watch. Things like taking care of her cremation arrangements in between buying a new dishwasher and truck.

To be fair to Dad, the dishwasher was something that he had needed for a long time, but hadn't had the opportunity to get because he was busy nursing his bedridden wife. Purchasing the truck is a bit more complicated. My Mom convinced Dad to buy a Nissan Armada a year or so before her death. Dad didn't want an SUV, but acquiesced because he knew Mom's motive were the Boy(s). She pictured a future where they would need a big SUV to carry the Boy(s) around on trips, and when they would have them for a week or two during summer holidays. To this day, I can't see a Nissan Armada without feeling a pang of regret.

But it was while doing these curious type of things that I found myself wondering if Mom was watching. And if she was, what did she think of Dad buying a dishwasher less than 24 hours after she died. Or getting rid of the Armada he never wanted. Did she watch me clean out her car because we had sold it to one of her friends less than 48 hours after her death?

I don't fault my father for any of this. You do strange things under that sort of stress. You also don't have the benefit of hindsight. That understanding of how strange memory can be, and that you will remember the things you want to forget while forgetting the things you want to remember.

"Why don't you ever cry?" Wy once asked me.

"I do cry, son." I said. "Everyone cries."

The truth is Dear Reader, I only cried in front of my Dad, truly cried, once during those dark October days. It was after I had put the final load of stuff in my car and was about to head back to Dallas. I was looking at Dad's new truck, his temporary license plate actually, when he walked up with a bunch of something in his arms.

"Here." he said trying to hand it to me.

"I don't want those." I said. "I can't take those."

"You and Carter paid for them." he said. "They'll fit a twin or double size bed. That's what size the hospital bed was."

"I don't want those." I said more forcefully, feeling the pain of the past two weeks well up from deep inside of me.

"Ok." he said, seeing that I was upset.

"Dad." I said, as I fought back the tears, "I don't care how much they cost us, I don't want the sheets that Mom died on."

Dad nodded, with such sad eyes which made me cry in earnest as I embraced him in a hug.

I still wonder if Mom saw or heard me say this into his ear: "You can burn those fuckers for all I care."

Until I BLOG again...You wonder what has happened to me...

Let There Be Love

Prologue

"Is Granny really dead?"

"Excuse me." I said, clearly taken aback by Wy's out-of-the-blue question in route to a friend's birthday party.

"Not Old Granny. The other Granny. Is she really dead?"

When we hit the red light at Hillcrest I turned around in my seat so I could look the Boy in the eye to get a read on his expression, so out of nowhere was the question.

Wy gave me a sheepishly nervous smile. The look he gives when I am (or he thinks I am) mad.

"Yes." I said. "Granny, my Mom, is dead."

"Oh," he said. "Forever?"

"Yes." I said. "Forever."

"Oh." he said looking nervous.

"When you die you die, son. It's for good. You don't come back like in the zombie game. Or on TV. Or in the movies. When you're dead. You're dead."

The car behind us honked when the light turned green forcing me to turn around and continue down Beltline.

Fighting down anger at being interrupted by this nameless other I said to Wy's reflection in the rearview mirror, "It's OK if you want to talk about it Wy. Daddy's not upset or mad. I'll answer your questions."

"Were you an adult?" he asked immediately.

"When Granny, my Mom, died?" I said. "Yes."

"Will I be an adult?"

"What?" I asked, although in that instant, I knew what he meant which is why we said in unison.

"I hope."
"Will I be an adult when you die?"

--------

We have two Christmas trees. The main tree is what we call My Lovely Bride's tree. Her tree was in our main living room. It stands in the window that is in the front of our house. She decorates this tree in a very coordinated fashion, and has made it known that it is off limits. In fact, the Boy(s), who can and will mess with most anything in our casa, will not mess with this tree. That says it all.

Our second tree, known as the Oklahoma and/or the Boy(s) tree was in our den where we spend most of our family time. It stood next to our recliner, opposite the sofa. It is not in a window. This is the tree the Boy(s) decorate, with gusto I might add, which means it is decorated in a very uncoordinated fashion with a hodgepodge of ornaments. Ornaments they've made in school as well as the obligatory keep sake Christmas (insert the applicable year and Boy(s)photo with Santa) ornaments.

Three weeks before Christmas, while sitting in the recliner and admiring the Boy(s) tree I noted a ceramic Frosty the Snowman ornament tucked into a nook in the back of the tree. You see Dear Reader, I made that ornament, and it was while trying to do the math of how old Frosty would be that I first noticed that the Boy(s) had hung duplicate Christmas 2002, 2003, 2004 and 2005 keep sake ornaments (with the applicable Boy(s) photo with Santa) on their tree. Most of them were hung near, if not next to each other which was oddly disconcerting, since they were carbon copies, and a bitter reminder that one of the two, had once belonged to my Mom. That's how we got the Boy(s) tree in the first place. We inherited (or claimed) it when my Dad got rid of Mom's things he didn't need or want. That's why the Boy(s) had a 35 year old Frosty the Snowman ornament on their tree along with many others that literally adorned the Christmas trees of my youth.

At church the Sunday prior to Christmas, Pastor Jack openly discussed the recent loss of a fellow Minister and life-long friend to cancer. He talked about her long fight. And how she had told him she was dying and the acceptance she felt. Then he discussed her final days at home in palliative care and then the aftermath of her death. Jack's emotions were as powerful as they were honest and by the time he talked about her nearly five year old son and husband there were few dry eyes left in the congregation.

After the sermon, I was sitting on a bench in the Narthex next to the Elder Boy and my father-in-law while my Lovely Bride and her Mom stood in front of us discussing Christmas Day logistics. I wasn't really listening to them to be honest. My mind was stuck on Jack's sermon and the Boy(s) Christmas tree when a friend walked up to our group, with tears in her eyes, and said something to the effect of, 'This is all your fault.' and then quickly changed the subject to something else. My in-laws who were with us didn't know what my Lovely Bride did, that this friend follows this here BLOG pretty regularly, thus knowing all my/our shit. I guess Jack's sermon coupled with the holiday season led to this outpouring of empathy.

I don't really know, the same way she didn't know that when she walked up and said what she said, I was thinking about the Boy(s) tree and a 35 year old Frosty ornament while doing a mental inventory of the duplicate Christmas (insert the applicable year and Boy(s)photo with Santa) ornaments that were on their tree.

The answer is eight. Which is really four. Four. That's how many Christmases Mom got as a Granny.

There are three single Christmas keep sake ornaments on their tree. Christmas 2006, 2007 and 2008, which made this our third Christmas sans Mom.

In spite of what you've read, I'd be lying if I said this third Christmas was as hard as the first or second. It wasn't. I had my moments. Like when Jack talked about his friend dying of cancer. That's when those old familiar fuck cancer sort of feelings are dredged up, and I'm enveloped by the finality of her death.

It was when I was looking at that Frosty ornament I made so long ago that I realized something this Christmas. Something I don't think you can truly get until you lose your Mom, unless of course you are a Mom.

No one in the world ever cared for me more, or ever will.

She's really dead, and all I have are my memories and a few time capsules like a 35 year old Frosty the Snowman she kept and those fucking duplicated Christmas (insert the applicable year and Boy(s)photo with Santa) keep sake ornaments.

Until I BLOG again...Who kicked a hole in the sky so the heavens would cry over me?