im Speicher

I got the text to call when I had a minute.  I had some stuff going on, so I waited.  I finally called and got the news.  I didn't expect that.  I hung up and the tears came.  I didn't expect to hear that she was gone.  I've been worried about the health of so many others, but not her.  She hasn't really been with us for a number of years.  Her body's been there, but her mind was either trapped or moved elsewhere.

The last time I saw her was a party at the nursing home, maybe for last Christmas.  They wheeled her out, but she didn't know most of us.  She had glimpses of lucidity, but the gears just weren't catching.  I think the last time I remember her as her was some right after my daughter was born. 

We take for granted the people in our lives.  We go through the motion of day-to-day living, assuming our loved ones will always be there.  We don't take the time to call or visit because "we're just too busy."  I stopped taking the time for her after college.  I was teaching, coaching, going to school.  I got married, divorced, remarried, had kids.  I didn't call, I didn't visit.  I invited her to celebrations.  I spent time with her when we were at the same place, but I didn't make an effort.  For that, I am truly remorseful.  She was a special lady.

When my parent adopted me, there was a law that for the first year of my life with them, I could not be cared for by non-family members.  That meant while my cousins all went to daycare as infants, I went to her house.  It must have made an impression on me, because I remember as a three-year-old throwing a small tantrum that I would not go back to Miss Lee's, I wanted to go to her house.  Since my fits were pretty spectacular, and even at that age I was headstrong, my parents acquiesced.  So until I went to kindergarten, my days were spent with her. 

I remember kneeling on the kitchen chair, rolling out dough for chicken and dumplings.  I remember her chasing a snapping turtle into a garbage can with a broom so she could make turtle soup.  I remember frozen glazed donuts, heated in the toaster oven, for breakfast.  Each day after nap, I'd get to watch Mr. Rogers; our game was always guessing which color sweater he would choose.  I remember VBS at the Lutheran Church.  After I started school, I would go to her house on holidays.  She'd always send me to the basement where I'd bring up a jar of blackberries or pickles or some other goody she had canned and knew I loved.  I drank my milk out of a plastic coffee cup that was kept just for me.  It's probably still there.  I can remember her giving me a perm when I was four and I cried because I was afraid my mom wouldn't recognize me with curly hair.  I remember being driven to her house every year on Halloween until I stopped trick or treating because she wanted to see me in my costume.  Most of all, I remember she loved me unconditionally.

I'll Always Be His Little Girl

Yesterday was hard for me. I so didn't want to go to the bar-b-que my brothers were having at the farm. I could have given you a million and one reasons why--I didn't feel like driving that far, I was going to be tired from 65 miles in the saddle, the kids wouldn't get a nap--but it all boiled down to one main reason, I didn't want to cry. You see, the farm was my dad's piece of heaven on earth. I remember when he and my brother's bought the land he said that he didn't think he would ever really get to retire. He was buying the ground so that he could retire on the weekends while he was still working. Donnie was prophetic. He retired in August and left us that next April. So you see, there is a lot of meaning to the land for me.

The last time I had gone to the farm was the one year anniversary of his death. True confession time--I have never been, and will never go, to my dad's grave. I truly believe, with all my heart, he's not there. We may have buried his body, but I know his spirit lives on in the woods in Southern Illinois. The last time I went down, it was almost too much for me. I walked the woods and the trails and cried. I had a heck of a time getting myself together to even drive home that day. Even driving past the turn-off to get there has brought me to tears, so I knew yesterday would be a struggle. And you have to know, I don't like being upset around people. I always work at being a positive, happy person.

I did fine when we first got there. I sat in my chair, visited with old friends, and tried to relax. I may have made it through dried eyed, but then my maama and Uncle Lloyd got there. My maama is my dad's mom. She is the strong, most incredible woman I know. Her faith and resilency have been inspirational to me as long as I can remember. She'll be 93 this fall and is still living on her own. My Uncle Lloyd is my dad's older brother. There was never any mistaking the fact they were brothers. Lloyd was a little taller, broader shouldered, but otherwise they were identical. Uncle Lloyd always grabs hold of me and hugs me with such love and tells me he loves me. The same thing my dad did every day of my life growing up. Here's an insight into who I am--I had a pretty amazing childhood. I grew up pretty poor, we never had money and there were months I know bills weren't paid. The amazing part of it was I never knew that then. All I knew was that I was loved, supported and encouraged to try whatever I dared. My daddy told me he loved me every day and that I would always be his little girl. And he was very specific about why he told me he loved me so much. He said life was too short and too unpredictable. You never know when may be the last time you see someone and that you should never leave anything unspoken to someone you love.

I was feeling some emotion after visiting with them for a bit, but I was still fine. Then it was time to eat. Jeffrey's voice cracked when he asked me to stand with he and Michael while Uncle Lloyd made a toast to Pop and Maama blessed our food. Then I saw the bottle of Pepsi, my daddy's drink of choice, in Lloyd's hand. And Lloyd hugged me again. I could barely mumble "I miss him so much" as the tears poured out of my eyes. The last time we had all gathered there was the fall when he was diagnosed with cancer--one last cook out with him. I felt so alone standing there, surrounded by our family and friends yesterday. I felt so empty with him there. After Lloyd gave his toast, cousins and aunts embraced me as I sobbed, but I just couldn't stop. I walked away knowing what I needed. I told Sam I was going for a walk.

I took the main path down to the creek and talked aloud to him. I talked about walking the woods, looking for deer tracks. I asked if he knew how much I really hated hunting and that I did it for him. I reminsced about our times down there, the pig roast, hunting trips, weekends. Mostly, I just kept repeating how much I missed him. How much I wished, every day, my kids had known him. I got to the creek and just stood and watched the water. I wanted a sign--a cool breeze to blow, a young deer to walk by--to know that he was with me in spirit and could hear what I was saying, but those things only happen in movies. So I stood a little longer until I could get myself under control. I made the hike out of the creek bottom back to the party. Andy hugged and hugged on me because he saw that I'd been crying. And it was in that moment, I knew my dad's spirit lives on. I looked my incredible son and told him how much I loved him and that he'll always be my little boy, something he has heard every day of his life because nothing will ever go unspoken between us.