I'm not sure we intended any theme here at Gethsemane Girls, but this will be a total non sequitur. A couple of years ago, my daughter became enamored with the song "Thriller" by Michael Jackson. (Not him, just the song.) That in turn led to the video, with it's cheesy special effects, but it also led to her introduction to the great Vincent Price. (He performs the "rap" on "Thriller." ) He and his wife had done a commercial in the 1980's for VisaCard that was hysterical. I described it to my daughter as best I could, but being the brilliant child she is, she said, "let's look for it on YouTube." Bingo!
Here is a little Halloween treat for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8ip_aEku38
Enjoy!
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Uncle Jerry & Aunt Elaine
Remember the surprise birthday party for Mom? Her brother Jerry and his wife, Elaine, have been here all week. Mom and her "crew" have been like tourists in SD this week. But Jerry and Elaine are leaving tomorrow morning to fly back to Michigan. We all got together one more time this evening to eat and tell stories. It was great. When it came time for them to leave, Mom stayed in the house while everyone else went outside. Just too hard to say good-bye when there are thousands of miles in between the next hello.
I love my Mom, and I love my sisters. They are wonderful women and I'm proud to be in the gene pool with them. Mom said this was the best week of her life - she had a 7-day birthday party that was filled with laughter, fun, food, and love. God bless you Mama.
I love my Mom, and I love my sisters. They are wonderful women and I'm proud to be in the gene pool with them. Mom said this was the best week of her life - she had a 7-day birthday party that was filled with laughter, fun, food, and love. God bless you Mama.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sine Nomine
I’m beginning to really not like All Saints’ Sunday. I know it’s supposed to be a celebration, but it’ll be two years in a row now I’ll be praying the name of someone close to me that died in the previous twelve months, and I’ll be crying. Not the sad, watery eyed tears of empathy, but the gut-wrenching, unable to speak through cries that can only come from a hole in your heart. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Actually, in 2006, the last of my uncles died. We weren’t particularly close, but he and my mom loved each other and managed to exchange phone calls occasionally, especially near their birthdays, which were only a day or two apart. On All Saints’ Day that year, my daughter and I had gone to visit my sister at her church. They had a very cool celebration, since they were meeting in a church with a belfry and a real bell. So at the beginning of the service, they passed around a clipboard and asked the assembly to write down the names of folks who had died that year. At the appointed time, they tolled the bell as each name was read from the clipboard one by one. But both my sister and I forgot to add my uncle’s name to the list.
Last year, it was Ed. His death in July was like a sucker punch. He was my parents’ age, but it was hard to consider him as their peer. He and his wife Dottie were much more physically active than my folks, and they traveled extensively, sometimes flying stand-by. My folks hadn’t traveled by any mode recently, due to various health issues and annoyances. Ed’s death reminded me that my own parents could die at any moment, but more than that, Ed was my friend and colleague. We served on the team charged with stewardship of our church’s financial resources and we shared the seriousness of that responsibility. We also shared a sometimes wicked sense of humor, and those years serving together were a priceless gift for me. At his memorial, we sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in honor of his love for the San Diego Padres. Sometime later the mailbox slot in the church office was changed, his name removed and the next financial secretary’s name put in its place. The first time I saw it, I burst out crying. Then, hearing his name on All Saints’ Sunday just started the tears all over again.
About six weeks later, in the middle of December, my mom died. She had been ill and hospitalized, but seemed to be on the road to recovery. When my dad called to say she was being rushed to the ER from the skilled nursing facility where she’d been for only a few days, it was a shock. By that evening, she was gone.
So here we are, almost eleven months later, on the eve of another All Saints’ Day. Another candle, another name, more tears. The celebration is out of my reach again this year.
Actually, in 2006, the last of my uncles died. We weren’t particularly close, but he and my mom loved each other and managed to exchange phone calls occasionally, especially near their birthdays, which were only a day or two apart. On All Saints’ Day that year, my daughter and I had gone to visit my sister at her church. They had a very cool celebration, since they were meeting in a church with a belfry and a real bell. So at the beginning of the service, they passed around a clipboard and asked the assembly to write down the names of folks who had died that year. At the appointed time, they tolled the bell as each name was read from the clipboard one by one. But both my sister and I forgot to add my uncle’s name to the list.
Last year, it was Ed. His death in July was like a sucker punch. He was my parents’ age, but it was hard to consider him as their peer. He and his wife Dottie were much more physically active than my folks, and they traveled extensively, sometimes flying stand-by. My folks hadn’t traveled by any mode recently, due to various health issues and annoyances. Ed’s death reminded me that my own parents could die at any moment, but more than that, Ed was my friend and colleague. We served on the team charged with stewardship of our church’s financial resources and we shared the seriousness of that responsibility. We also shared a sometimes wicked sense of humor, and those years serving together were a priceless gift for me. At his memorial, we sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in honor of his love for the San Diego Padres. Sometime later the mailbox slot in the church office was changed, his name removed and the next financial secretary’s name put in its place. The first time I saw it, I burst out crying. Then, hearing his name on All Saints’ Sunday just started the tears all over again.
About six weeks later, in the middle of December, my mom died. She had been ill and hospitalized, but seemed to be on the road to recovery. When my dad called to say she was being rushed to the ER from the skilled nursing facility where she’d been for only a few days, it was a shock. By that evening, she was gone.
So here we are, almost eleven months later, on the eve of another All Saints’ Day. Another candle, another name, more tears. The celebration is out of my reach again this year.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Poor Mom. We've surprised her so many times this weekend, she jumps when somebody knocks on the door, thinking it's another relative she hasn't seen in forever. First it was her brother Jerry, whom she hadn't seen in five years. All of Mom's kids hadn't seen him in 20 years - he doesn't travel west much.
Then yesterday, my girls took their Grandma shopping and kept her out of the house for four hours while my sisters cooked and decorated for a surprise party. Right on cue, she showed up to find 50 friends and relatives standing in her front yard, yelling SURPRISE! Gotcha again, Mom.
It was a great party - lots of laughing and reminiscing. At around 4 p.m., the third surprise arrived - a bunch of Mom's friends from church. We left them in the patio room, with Mom keeping court.
Finally, at around 10 p.m., the last surprise of the day arrived and it was a surprise for me, too. My cousin George, who lives in Washington state, walked in the door like he was just in the neighborhood and wanted to drop in.
We talked for hours - we're all great storytellers and know how to make each other laugh. Maybe that's an inheritance from our Mor Mor (mother's mother), who would tell us stories of her native Sweden and the island she grew up on.
---
We all met at Mom's house again this afternoon. More talking, eating, laughing. George (Buddy) has been researching the family tree and got all the way back to 1730 on the Hammer side (my maternal grandmother). There's talk of a family reunion, the biggest decision being where to hold it.
I remember family get togethers when I was little. Uncle Ralph and his guitar, teaching us campfire songs - he was a kid magnet though he never had children of his own; Uncle Gerry with his quiet strength and gentleness - the little ones all loved him; Uncle Bud (George) who didn't want anyone to know he was old enough to be a grandfather, and who loved to tell us jokes and funny stories; Uncle Art - kind of a cross between John Wayne and Charles Bronson - tough as nails; Aunt Thyra who was gone from Illinois to SD by the time I was six. When we moved to SD, she taught me how to tailor clothing - not just how to sew, but how to measure and cut and make a garment that fit perfectly. I loved her very much, and although she didn't always approve of us over the years, we knew she loved us right back.
Wish I didn't have to work this week - I'd love to hang out with Mom and the gang.
Then yesterday, my girls took their Grandma shopping and kept her out of the house for four hours while my sisters cooked and decorated for a surprise party. Right on cue, she showed up to find 50 friends and relatives standing in her front yard, yelling SURPRISE! Gotcha again, Mom.
It was a great party - lots of laughing and reminiscing. At around 4 p.m., the third surprise arrived - a bunch of Mom's friends from church. We left them in the patio room, with Mom keeping court.
Finally, at around 10 p.m., the last surprise of the day arrived and it was a surprise for me, too. My cousin George, who lives in Washington state, walked in the door like he was just in the neighborhood and wanted to drop in.
We talked for hours - we're all great storytellers and know how to make each other laugh. Maybe that's an inheritance from our Mor Mor (mother's mother), who would tell us stories of her native Sweden and the island she grew up on.
---
We all met at Mom's house again this afternoon. More talking, eating, laughing. George (Buddy) has been researching the family tree and got all the way back to 1730 on the Hammer side (my maternal grandmother). There's talk of a family reunion, the biggest decision being where to hold it.
I remember family get togethers when I was little. Uncle Ralph and his guitar, teaching us campfire songs - he was a kid magnet though he never had children of his own; Uncle Gerry with his quiet strength and gentleness - the little ones all loved him; Uncle Bud (George) who didn't want anyone to know he was old enough to be a grandfather, and who loved to tell us jokes and funny stories; Uncle Art - kind of a cross between John Wayne and Charles Bronson - tough as nails; Aunt Thyra who was gone from Illinois to SD by the time I was six. When we moved to SD, she taught me how to tailor clothing - not just how to sew, but how to measure and cut and make a garment that fit perfectly. I loved her very much, and although she didn't always approve of us over the years, we knew she loved us right back.
Wish I didn't have to work this week - I'd love to hang out with Mom and the gang.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Nanna's Last Trip
My grandmother died in March of 2000, just two weeks shy of a full twenty years of widowhood. I think Nanna chafed under the bonds of Papa’s illness and frailty in his last few years, so when he died on Easter Sunday in 1980, she was free again. She would pack a small bag, (she traveled VERY light) and put the dog in the car, and take off. (By the way, the dog had a carseat that boosted her up to see out the window from a reclining position.) We would answer the phone to hear Nanna say, “hi, I’m in Yuma, I’ll be home in a few days,” or “I’m in Santa Barbara, see you Friday.”
Nanna had some brave and adventurous blood in her veins. Her father disguised himself as a Catholic priest and escaped his homeland of Bohemia (later to become Czechoslovakia) and impressment in the Russian Army. Her mother, from a “rich” family who owned land, came to America against her family’s wishes, selling her long blond hair to a wigmaker to pay for her ticket. The two met in the Minnesota community of Bohemians, where they married, had five children and became naturalized citizens. Nanna was the oldest, and the only girl. She spent a lot of time caring for her little brothers. I think that had a lot to do with her desire to travel at will.
I remember wonderful trips with her when I was a child, mostly quick, weekend jaunts. One time, in October, we flew up to San Francisco for the three-day holiday weekend. When we arrived, we rented a car, something sporty with bucket seats and the gearshift in a console between. We got in the car and Nanna said, “I don’t think I can drive this one.” (This from the woman who, several decades before, repaired her own car’s broken fan belt by rolling off her stocking and tying it over the pulleys.) The rental agent assured her it was an automatic transmission, and we were off. We had a wonderful time, eating fish and nibbling Ghirardelli chocolate. We got home Monday evening, only to discover it wasn’t a holiday after all, and I had missed school. Thank you, Christopher Columbus.
Nanna passed away on a Saturday night at a nursing home, four years after falling and breaking a hip. (Or, did her hip break first, causing the fall? Hard to tell with osteoporosis.) (Take your CALCIUM out there, folks!) The trauma of the break seemed to intensify and accelerate the dementia she was beginning to show, and what turned out to be her final few years were spent in the hazy frontier between yesterday and yesteryear. After receiving the news of her passing, we gathered to “say” good-bye, kiss her cheek.
The following Monday morning, my mom called the mortuary to see if there was any paperwork to finish. The mortuary had no idea why she was calling. So she called the nursing home immediately. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY HUSBAND’S MOTHER’S BODY?!” Needless to say, they were not prepared for that inquiry. They promised to call right back. When they did, we learned the nursing home had called the wrong mortuary. The correct mortuary was dispatched to pick up Nanna’s body from their competitors.
For approximately thirty-six hours, we didn’t know where Nanna was. But we didn’t know we didn’t know. I think Nanna was having a great chuckle at our expense. She just had to get in one last trip.
Esther Anna Doane (nee Blecha) 1907-2000
Love you, Nanna!
Nanna had some brave and adventurous blood in her veins. Her father disguised himself as a Catholic priest and escaped his homeland of Bohemia (later to become Czechoslovakia) and impressment in the Russian Army. Her mother, from a “rich” family who owned land, came to America against her family’s wishes, selling her long blond hair to a wigmaker to pay for her ticket. The two met in the Minnesota community of Bohemians, where they married, had five children and became naturalized citizens. Nanna was the oldest, and the only girl. She spent a lot of time caring for her little brothers. I think that had a lot to do with her desire to travel at will.
I remember wonderful trips with her when I was a child, mostly quick, weekend jaunts. One time, in October, we flew up to San Francisco for the three-day holiday weekend. When we arrived, we rented a car, something sporty with bucket seats and the gearshift in a console between. We got in the car and Nanna said, “I don’t think I can drive this one.” (This from the woman who, several decades before, repaired her own car’s broken fan belt by rolling off her stocking and tying it over the pulleys.) The rental agent assured her it was an automatic transmission, and we were off. We had a wonderful time, eating fish and nibbling Ghirardelli chocolate. We got home Monday evening, only to discover it wasn’t a holiday after all, and I had missed school. Thank you, Christopher Columbus.
Nanna passed away on a Saturday night at a nursing home, four years after falling and breaking a hip. (Or, did her hip break first, causing the fall? Hard to tell with osteoporosis.) (Take your CALCIUM out there, folks!) The trauma of the break seemed to intensify and accelerate the dementia she was beginning to show, and what turned out to be her final few years were spent in the hazy frontier between yesterday and yesteryear. After receiving the news of her passing, we gathered to “say” good-bye, kiss her cheek.
The following Monday morning, my mom called the mortuary to see if there was any paperwork to finish. The mortuary had no idea why she was calling. So she called the nursing home immediately. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY HUSBAND’S MOTHER’S BODY?!” Needless to say, they were not prepared for that inquiry. They promised to call right back. When they did, we learned the nursing home had called the wrong mortuary. The correct mortuary was dispatched to pick up Nanna’s body from their competitors.
For approximately thirty-six hours, we didn’t know where Nanna was. But we didn’t know we didn’t know. I think Nanna was having a great chuckle at our expense. She just had to get in one last trip.
Esther Anna Doane (nee Blecha) 1907-2000
Love you, Nanna!
Friday, October 24, 2008
Birthday Surprise
My Mom turns 70 tomorrow. If you've read in a previous blog about the brain tumor, then you know how grateful we are that she's still with us. That was a very close call.
Anyway, Mom is one of six children, born to Edith and George. She's the youngest, and all but her brother Jerry have gone to Heaven. Since she can't fly for awhile, or at least until her doctor gives her the go-ahead, we were really happy to find out that Jerry and his wife, Elaine, were planning to surprise her with a visit.
It's HARD to keep a secret in my family, but this one was just too good. Mom may have suspected we were up to something, but as she told us later, she thought we were going to surprise her with a cake. The look on her face when she saw her brother - there are no words. They both just hugged and cried. Then we all cried. She grabbed his hand and didn't let go. For hours & hours, we sat around and talked about everything. When we were kids...when my Mom and Jerry were kids...politics...the economy...the war in Iraq...and funny, funny stories. My cheeks are sore from laughing so much. Finally, we decided to let the two snowbirds go back to my cousin Lynn's house so they could get some shut-eye. They'd been up since the crack of Michigan dawn, after all, and here it was nearly 11 p.m. San Diego time.
Jerry and Elaine are going to be here for a week. As I kissed Mom goodnight and headed to my car, I said, "Good night Mom, sleep tight." She told me, "I won't be able to sleep tonight." I asked her why. She said, "Because I'm just so excited - I can't wait for tomorrow." In that instant she wasn't my Mom. I saw the little girl with white-blonde curls, smiling as she waited for her favorite big brother to get home from school. I love you Mom - Happy Birthday!
Anyway, Mom is one of six children, born to Edith and George. She's the youngest, and all but her brother Jerry have gone to Heaven. Since she can't fly for awhile, or at least until her doctor gives her the go-ahead, we were really happy to find out that Jerry and his wife, Elaine, were planning to surprise her with a visit.
It's HARD to keep a secret in my family, but this one was just too good. Mom may have suspected we were up to something, but as she told us later, she thought we were going to surprise her with a cake. The look on her face when she saw her brother - there are no words. They both just hugged and cried. Then we all cried. She grabbed his hand and didn't let go. For hours & hours, we sat around and talked about everything. When we were kids...when my Mom and Jerry were kids...politics...the economy...the war in Iraq...and funny, funny stories. My cheeks are sore from laughing so much. Finally, we decided to let the two snowbirds go back to my cousin Lynn's house so they could get some shut-eye. They'd been up since the crack of Michigan dawn, after all, and here it was nearly 11 p.m. San Diego time.
Jerry and Elaine are going to be here for a week. As I kissed Mom goodnight and headed to my car, I said, "Good night Mom, sleep tight." She told me, "I won't be able to sleep tonight." I asked her why. She said, "Because I'm just so excited - I can't wait for tomorrow." In that instant she wasn't my Mom. I saw the little girl with white-blonde curls, smiling as she waited for her favorite big brother to get home from school. I love you Mom - Happy Birthday!
Friday, October 17, 2008
Rainy Days and Moms
My younger daughter was 10 years old when she decided that living by Mom's rules was more than she could handle and she was MOVING OUT. She packed some clothes, toothbrush, soap, and supplies in her school backpack. Didn't bother to pack the school books - she wouldn't need them if she was living on her own - right? She put groceries in a sack - canned chili, tuna, chips, bread, spaghettios, a couple cans of soda. Grabbed a sleeping bag. Then she climbed out her bedroom window, got the ladder out of the shed and moved - to the roof.
This whole thing started because I grounded her for breaking some rule - I don't even remember what she had done wrong, but believe me it was probably the 100th time I had warned her about it and she deserved far worse than being put on restriction. So, with her 10-year old maturity, she figured that it would be better to be free in the world than to do what her mother told her to do.
I let her go out the window, figuring she would end up at my sister's house a block away. But a half hour later when I checked, she wasn't there. So I looked around the house and yard, in the shed, up and down the street. Hmmm... Standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, I saw what looked like a big bird out of the corner of my eye. Looked up - there she was at the peak of the roof. Sleeping bag spread out and her little roof picnic scattered around her.
"Get down from there right this minute! You could fall and break something!!" I yelled at her.
"No - you're mean and I'm never coming home again."
Puhleeze - you're on the roof dodo bird. You're already home. I didn’t actually call her a dodo bird, even if it would have felt good to tell her how silly she was being.
“OK – fine with me. You can stay up there.” With that I went back in the house. I was really worried about her falling off the roof – it was slanted pretty steeply – I pictured her sliding down and falling into the chain link fence. Should I call the fire department, police, my mom? I peeked out the front window. My neighbors were outside now, watching the spectacle, and I’m sure, discussing that single mom across the street with the bad-assed kids.
Fifteen minutes later, I went back out. “It’s getting late – do you have blankets to keep warm?”
“Yes Mom.” This was said with just the right amount of disgust.
“OK…do you have enough food?”
“Yes – go away! I don’t need you!” Now she was yelling, her piping voice screeching at me.
“Great, sounds like you really prepared for every possibility. So…did you think about the weather? It’s not always summer, sometimes it’s cold or rainy.”
I could see the awareness dawning in her eyes – Mom was up to something. Mom wasn’t yelling, she was being really quiet and that wasn’t a good thing. But my hard-headed little girl decided to bluff it out.
“Go away!” she screamed at me.
I calmly walked to the hose faucet. Turned it on full blast. Walked back out the full 50-feet length of the hose. “Are you sure you prepared for rain?” I asked her innocently.
She saw the hose and knew it was all over. As I began “raining” on her parade, she began tossing her stuff off the roof. She went down the ladder and climbed back in the window, squawking about her mean mother the whole time. Guess she decided being on restriction was better than living on her own after all.
This whole thing started because I grounded her for breaking some rule - I don't even remember what she had done wrong, but believe me it was probably the 100th time I had warned her about it and she deserved far worse than being put on restriction. So, with her 10-year old maturity, she figured that it would be better to be free in the world than to do what her mother told her to do.
I let her go out the window, figuring she would end up at my sister's house a block away. But a half hour later when I checked, she wasn't there. So I looked around the house and yard, in the shed, up and down the street. Hmmm... Standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, I saw what looked like a big bird out of the corner of my eye. Looked up - there she was at the peak of the roof. Sleeping bag spread out and her little roof picnic scattered around her.
"Get down from there right this minute! You could fall and break something!!" I yelled at her.
"No - you're mean and I'm never coming home again."
Puhleeze - you're on the roof dodo bird. You're already home. I didn’t actually call her a dodo bird, even if it would have felt good to tell her how silly she was being.
“OK – fine with me. You can stay up there.” With that I went back in the house. I was really worried about her falling off the roof – it was slanted pretty steeply – I pictured her sliding down and falling into the chain link fence. Should I call the fire department, police, my mom? I peeked out the front window. My neighbors were outside now, watching the spectacle, and I’m sure, discussing that single mom across the street with the bad-assed kids.
Fifteen minutes later, I went back out. “It’s getting late – do you have blankets to keep warm?”
“Yes Mom.” This was said with just the right amount of disgust.
“OK…do you have enough food?”
“Yes – go away! I don’t need you!” Now she was yelling, her piping voice screeching at me.
“Great, sounds like you really prepared for every possibility. So…did you think about the weather? It’s not always summer, sometimes it’s cold or rainy.”
I could see the awareness dawning in her eyes – Mom was up to something. Mom wasn’t yelling, she was being really quiet and that wasn’t a good thing. But my hard-headed little girl decided to bluff it out.
“Go away!” she screamed at me.
I calmly walked to the hose faucet. Turned it on full blast. Walked back out the full 50-feet length of the hose. “Are you sure you prepared for rain?” I asked her innocently.
She saw the hose and knew it was all over. As I began “raining” on her parade, she began tossing her stuff off the roof. She went down the ladder and climbed back in the window, squawking about her mean mother the whole time. Guess she decided being on restriction was better than living on her own after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)