I thought

 

It would get better...easier somehow. It hasn't.

The gnawing feeling of something missing has instead gone deeper and become so much more complex.

Today would have been my mother's 89th birthday. She left us just under two years ago.

I still miss her.

Alice the Wonder Woman.

I miss Dad too, but daughters, and sons too, seem to have a special connection with their mamas. As I get older and life becomes ever more challenging, I miss her amazing wisdom more and more. Things happen and my mind wants to run them by her, hear her thoughts, learn from her knowledge and understanding of life. We talked almost every day for the vast majority of my entire life. 68 years worth. The conversations in my head are not the same, nor is singing to her picture on the kitchen wall. (We shared the tragic inability to sing on key, along with the sheer joy of doing it anyhow.)

All I can do these days is my own personal best but I am not a lot like her. She was bold and strong and sassy, but joyful with it. She was always delighted with life and babies and fun, and so darned loving to us all, especially Dad, but all of us. I am quieter, more introverted, a worrier to the point of inertia. Not only did she get things done, she got me to get things done too.

Life is shallower without her, duller, less rounded and well-formed. I thought it would get better.

But it didn't. I miss you, Mama.

Today

 

Would have been Dad's 90th birthday. I wish he had made it. I miss him and Mom so much.... 

I keep a word processing document called Letterstomymother, in which I record all the things I need to talk to her about. We used to chat every evening for years and years and years, sometimes for five minutes, "Hi, how are ya? We're doing fine." Sometimes for two hours, clearing up all of our problems by airing them out good

Sometimes sharing stories.

Sometimes bragging. There was a lot of bragging. Mom cared if I found a good bird. She wanted to know about that big buck the boy got, or a promotion at work for one of the girls. She would have loved to hear about Bailey hitting five months old and being so darned cute and snuggleable. "How's that baby doing?" she would have asked.

Last night Peggy brought home a stellar report card. She is reading at nearly twice her project goal level. I really, really wanted to call Mom and tell  her, but that couldn't happen.

So I dropped her a note instead. It isn't the real deal but it's better than nothing.

Anyhow, Letterstomymother covers Dad as well. His profound deafness made it really hard to talk to him on the phone, but she always conveyed everything that was said in our little chats, and he always wanted to know. So I am sure if she somehow reads what I am writing to her, she is telling him what's going on, as soon as we get off the air.

Love you Dad. Love you Mom. Hope Heaven is all that is promised.

The Dutchman

 

You know of course that we lost both our parents four days apart over New Years. They were 87 and 89 and had a good life together, raised us, loved us and all the grandbabies and great grandbabies, and left their mark on the world in many ways. 

They never stopped doing and loving and living right up until the end. 

Covid made that end dark and lonely, something which is very hard to forgive at all, ever. Bad things were done and happened that I am not going to talk about here, but they sure should not keep families apart at such times. 

Anyhow, more than they loved all of us, they loved each other. They were more entwined than anyone I knew...utterly dependent on one another. If one was in the hospital the other pined and did all they could to fix things if they could. They never went anywhere without each other, shared hobbies and pastimes and work and play.

Mom was so damned strong that it humbled me. She simply did everything she could to make life right for Dad. She taught me to go after what was needed no matter how hard it might have been to ask.  He knew that he needed her and just how much and acted accordingly. I hope they are rewarded in Heaven for what they went through in their final weeks.

When they went it was as if the center shifted and the light went off in the world. I had them sixty-eight years, my whole life, and it wasn’t nearly enough.

But for three months I never cried. Not a tear, no dampness in the corner of the eye. Numbness and mournful malaise for sure but no tears. 

Then one day I was listening to the High Kings perform the Dutchman on my cell phone playlist, while I washed the dishes. 

Margaret and the Dutchman seemed to personify my parents’ relationship and the way they propped each other up and cherished each other for so many years.

I looked up at their pictures on the wall over the stove and started crying and couldn’t stop. The rest of that day was a melting watercolor of every loss I’ve ever felt, especially over the past 18 months.

Okay, everybody needs that. Good, maybe I will move on now.

Except that every single time I hear the song, no matter how determined I am to not react I do. Same way every time.

Many probably see me as a hard person. Or at least stoic. Farming can bring on the hard, all the while softening the center where no one sees. It certainly fosters stoicism. You just get used to things happening that you can’t control and learn to roll with it and just move on.

However, that song absolutely dissolves me right down to nothing every single time I hear it.

Should I take if off my playlist and harden the old shell, or leave it there on shuffle to sneak up on me with its reminders of all that is missing? 

We lost so many close family members, beloved aunts, an amazing uncle, good friends from all over the world in the past few months……I just don’t know. 

To all the Mothers

 

And all those who stepped up in place of mothers, (you know who you are) or helped young mothers...to all the soon-to-be mothers...soccer moms, farm moms, moms all over the world...and to all of us who are missing their mothers today and every day....

A very Happy and Blessed Mother's Day.

With love from Northview Farm....

It was Meant with Love

One of our offspring was sometimes called "bezoar" as a child, although I mentally spelled it "bezore".

I once used that moniker in the doctor's office, and our pediatrician asked, "Do you know what that word means?"

Naturally I answered in the affirmative.

"Of course you do," he replied, shaking his head, and making it obvious that he had come to know us well indeed.

Nobody likes it when their children are ill, but if we had to deal with such...and with three asthmatics, we sure did...Dr. Konieczny was the man to visit. Our children were safe in his capable hands.

And he got us. He understood that an awful nickname like hairball could be used with great affection and fun. I suppose though that it was rough to be a middle kid whose nickname, Beezey, got changed to Beezer, and then swiftly morphed to Bezoar in the minds...and mouths...of her siblings and her terrible mother.

Now her online moniker is Breezey375, no mention of hair, or balls, or cow stomachs, because cows are where we found them back in the day.

Today is her birthday, and despite the terrible abuse she endured as a child, or perhaps because of it, she has come to be a truly compassionate, sweet, loving, caring person.

Sarcastic too.

Happy Birthday, Becky, it was all meant with love. 

To my Beautiful Mama

Happy Birthday, Mama....much love and admiration from all of us at Northview.....Hope you have a wonderful day and all your kids call you and may visit too.

Happy Mother's Day

The apple doesn't fall far......

To all the fine mothers and the products of fine mothers who might be reading this...

But especially to my own mommy Owdice, who is and always has been the very best of mothers.

Thanks for raising me right, listening to rants and raves and whines for all those years, and for the amazing blankets, quilts, paintings and carvings you made me over the years. For putting up with reptiles and amphibians in your house, which i know was not your favorite thing.....For passing down Betty Crocker, that old red and white cookbook that has kicked off so many great recipes, and for our daily phone chats now that mean the world for me.

And for doing all the cool stuff you always did with dad that pointed us kids in the direction of doing cool stuff too. That is my favorite photo of you, binoculars around your neck, boots, and go-out-in-the-woods clothes, with happy face. Sorry I didn't turn out to be much of a girlie girl though, because you did that side of life well too.

I love you mama, more than words can say. Hope you have a terrific day and hear from both your boys. You know I will be calling you too....

A Comfort of Warblers

A Lincoln's Sparrow, today's flying blessing

Things are still not at their best around here, alas. More issues keep popping up with mom, delaying her return home and worrying us all mightily. I know that worry accomplishes nothing but I have yet to find a way to stop doing it.

Then there was that terrible accident this past weekend. If you see the news, you've seen the story. Seriously, I watched the press conferences on the Daily Mail website, which will give you an idea of how far the story has reached. Our kids lost classmates and everyone who lives in the area knows someone who was affected. It is about as sad as it gets, an enormous tragedy. You simply do not know how blessed you are until things you hadn't planned on start happening.

So, as is I am sure the case with anyone with such situations on their mind, I've been pretty down. I still go birding every day because it's what I do, but my heart is not in it.

Last night I went out far later than is sensible, as early as the dark is coming and as dismal as it was yesterday. Just getting out of the house, you know. Didn't see more than a bird or two and nothing special at all until I got up behind the cow barn where we park the hay wagons should it ever be dry enough to make hay.

Birds started chirping at me. Loud....urgent. Okay, I guess I'll take a look even though it's almost dark. A lick of movement here, a little flicker there, and then I found them. There were three Yellow-rumped Warblers, two Blackpoll Warblers, and a single Blue-headed Vireo feeding in the box elders there. Not a great haul by any means, but not bad birds either.

What they were to me was a few minutes blessed respite from fear and worry....a comfort indeed.