BoomerChicks

Boats, Tweets and BS!

June the 4th and we are having light showers and thunder in Southern California.  It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't so cold, and I didn't have a driveway full of stuff from my garage purge.  The dogs won't stop barking, as I run outside to move the important things under some type of shelter.

The day was not entirely ruined though by this sudden change in weather.  I received a phone call from my brother who lives in the northern part of the state.  He was feeling down because today, his precious boat sailed to its new home in Canada.  My brother took this scrappy burned out vessel from its sure demise and for fifteen years worked on it bringing it back to its glory and grandeur.  It seems that just as he launched it, he was struck with an illness that has drained him for the past six years resulting in four surgeries.  He really had no choice but to sell his prized possession.

It was sad to hear him talk about how he felt, and I was more than happy to listen if it helped him through the process.  It was good though to hear that he had become fast friends with the new owner who made it emphatically clear that anytime my brother wants visitation, he is welcome.  Still, it must have been a difficult time to see his dream sail away. 

While we talked, one thing led to another, as it always does when two siblings are kibitzing.  I brought up the subject of Twitter, asking my brother if he knew about this recent craze in social media.  I wasn't surprised that he knew nothing about it, as he is much more into building things with his hands and having face-to-face time with people.  He really didn't sound too enthusiastic as I explained the concept to him.  He brought up the times that, as kids, we hung out at the "wall" phone when our grandmother called waiting for our one minute turn to talk to her.  This was so very true.  We were so excited to get the chance to talk to her on the phone.  We compared the likes of yesterday to today, with everyone carrying a cell phone and being able to talk anywhere, anytime.  Ah, progress!  Now we have Twitter -- instant gratification. 

The reason though that I brought up Twitter to my brother was to tell him that he should sign up for an account.  He builds exquisite guitars and I believe it would be a great outlet for him to sell them.  As crappy as he feels, and trust me, his illness is debilitating, he manages to stay busy building these beautiful instruments.  Slowly and methodically, he turns out a product of perfection -- they are stunning.  I am convinced that Bono himself would want one if he knew they existed!

Back to our conversation though.  I told my brother that he could send out "tweets" about his guitars, that he didn't need to use it as a conversation piece, but rather as a broadcasting mechanism.  "Tweets?", he said.  Just the way he said it made me chuckle, (tweet is a pretty bizarre word -- isn't that what birds do?).  It was his next comment though that packed the punch.  "Bullshit!", he said.  I began to laugh and he then stated, "I sounded like Dad, huh?" 

We went into a fifteen minute hysteria reminiscing about our Dad.  My brother said, "Remember when he took that computer class and walked out after five minutes?"  Did I remember?  It was unforgettable.  Our father came home and told all of us, "That guy didn't know what the hell he was talking about.  It was bullshit!"  This coming from a man who didn't know the difference yet between a monitor or a keyboard.  In fact, if I remember correctly, I think back then the terminology he used was "TV screen" and a "typewriter".  We roared with laughter.

Catching his breath, my brother then told me about the time he spent with our Dad at one of his Korean vets reunions in San Francisco.  One of the events was a tour of Alcatraz, and as my brother and father waited in line to board the ferry to the prison, Dad began to stress about how far back in line they were.  My brother assured him that the ferry would not leave without them.  Dad's response, "this is bullshit!"  Once inside the prison, the tour called for wearing a headset to understand what they were seeing during the tour.  Dad refused to wear the headset and therefore had no idea what was going on during the tour.  Again, his response to the outing -- "this is bullshit!" 

After several more examples of Dad's infamous responses, we could barely breathe, let alone talk.  I had stomach pain and tears were rolling down my face.   As we said our goodbyes, I told my brother that I would "tweet" his guitars and we laughed again. 

Not seconds after I hung up the phone, a huge clap of thunder shook the house.  The dogs went ballistic and I said out loud, "Wow, that was a big loud burst."  Then I thought or may be it's Dad. He's up there eavesdropping on our conversation and this is his way of saying, "bullshit!"  "Nah", I said to myself, "you don't talk like that in heaven!"  No, it is probably mom and Dad up there laughing along with my brother and I.  Silly thoughts.  It did make me stop and think though that laughter has always been a healing process and a source of strength for my family.  My brother feels like crap, his beloved boat has left the harbor, but he can still laugh.  And, laughter, they say, is the best medicine of all!

It's a Girl!

Sometimes the smallest thing can bring me to tears.  Like rummaging through boxes of stuff that have long laid untouched and finding an old piece of cloth from 1975.  This isn't any old cloth though.  It was the makeshift banner, a sort of neighborhood birth announcement, my parents created when I was pregnant with my first child, my daughter.

My first pregnancy was a big deal for my parents, as this was also their first grandchild.  They were quite anxious to be grandparents and they transferred their anxiety to their friends and neighbors.  They, as well as the people they knew, grew more anxious as my due date came and went, subsequently resulting in five additional weeks of waiting!

But back to the banner. 

Since everyone was on pins and needles waiting for the big day, my mom and Dad made a banner out of muslin fabric.  They painted huge letters "IT'S A" on one line,  "BOY" on another line and the final line read "GIRL."  The concept was to cut GIRL off if the baby was a boy or to pin the line that read "GIRL" over the word "BOY" if the baby was female.  They made holes in the banner, in order to put rope through it and hoist it up on their flagpole in the front yard.  Every morning the neighbors looked out to see if the flag had been raised announcing that the stork had arrived during the night.

As I opened the box and unfolded the muslin cloth, I could not contain myself.  I burst into tears.  I really had no idea that this piece of family history had been saved.  The banner was stained and crumpled from age, as it too will soon celebrate its 34th birthday.  It still had the pins in it that my mother used to conceal the word BOY, so that it read in big bold letters, IT'S A GIRL!

I was overwhelmed with emotion and sobbed uncontrollably.  RJ rushed to my side and I couldn't get the words out to let him know I was okay.  Finally I just handed him the banner and he knew, hugging me for the ten minutes it took me to regain my composure.  I didn't stay composed for very long though as all those memories of my daughter's birth came flooding back. 

My daughter arrived in August of 1975.  Everyone was in the throes of summer and it was hot.  I remember my mother arriving at the hospital in a heavy red plaid winter coat belted at the waist.  My father, who had never been physically present for the birth of his kids, was a nervous wreck waiting for the birth of his grandchild.  As I labored, I remember catching glimpses of him walking up and down the corridor, a nurse walking on each side of him for support.  One nurse was carrying an emesis basin and my father's face was VERY pale.  This was a man who fought in three wars, but folded under the pressure of a woman in labor!

Hours passed and still no baby.  Finally after thirty-six hours of labor, they called in a specialist who performed an emergency C-section.  I remember the procedure vividly, but shortly after it was all over, the exhaustion set in and I fell off to sleep. 

I woke up that evening in my room.  I have no recollection of how I got there and I had yet to hold my daughter, as she had been whisked off after the birth.  A nurse told me that everything was fine and that they would bring my baby in now that I was awake.  It was such a sweet moment holding her for the first time.  She was so perfect. 

I later learned that after the surgery, my daughter had been brought upstairs after eliminating some initial concern that she had complications from the birth.  Somewhere in all of my photos, I have a picture of my mom seeing her granddaughter for the first time.  The nurse wheeled her up in her bassinet and my mother, standing there in her red plaid winter coat, put her hands over her face and cried, "it's a boy!"  My husband and father just stood there looking baffled as the nurse said, "Grandma, I think you better take another look!"  She did indeed take a second look.  "Oh, it's a girl", she said. 

As soon as my folks arrived back at their house, they grabbed the banner and headed straight for the flagpole.  Neither one of them could get the rope threaded through the holes properly and gave up.  Using clothespins, they attached the banner to one of the bushes in their front yard.  They too were exhausted and took a long nap to regain their senses. 

My mother and I laughed every time we looked back on that day.  She, wearing her heavy, red plaid winter coat in 100 degree temperature, and my Dad, the tough Marine, getting even more medical attention than the mama in labor.  I so wanted to pick up the phone to call her, to tell her that I found the banner and we could have a hearty laugh all over again. 

I tried to clean the banner but it began to disintegrate so I opted to just leave it as is.  I carefully wrapped it in tissue paper and gently placed it in a photo box, as if it was the Shroud of Turin!  Someday I will add the photos taken that day and a copy of this story to the box.  Hopefully anyone who opens the box in years to come will smile (or laugh) as they run their hand over the banner while gazing at the photo of my mom in her red plaid winter coat!

The Little Blue Box

For two hours yesterday morning, I attempted to open a small blue metal file box that has been in my family as long as I can remember.  This is the box that my parents stored all their important papers -- documents like birth certificates, my father's discharge papers, the deed to the house, immunization records, and pink slips.

Anytime my parents needed proof of something, they reached for "the box".  Now, I need a couple of documents to settle my parents' estate, but the box is locked and no one knows the combination. 

Honestly, I don't even know if the papers I need are in this box.  My father, in his final years, became quite forgetful and no matter how hard I tried to organize him, he managed to undo everything, leaving me with boxes of papers to sort through.  Even the safety deposit box at the bank has been rifled through and God only knows where my Dad put everything.  He had become so paranoid that he was hiding everything and even he couldn't remember his "secret" places.  Case in point, he was sure that I had taken his spare set of car keys which were missing for months.  RJ finally discovered them in a Dutch oven hidden in the back corner of a cupboard.  When we showed my Dad the keys, he laughed and said, "I remember now!"  God bless him. 

I found the sacred metal box buried at the bottom of one of the leather magazine baskets I bought him to avoid the mess of papers he was throwing all over the floor.  I have never known the combination to this box, as it was a closely guarded secret.  My instincts tell me that there are things in this box that I need, but I do not want to break the combination lock to get inside.  I feel that this small metal box has become something of a family heirloom and it would break my heart to destroy it. 

After my two hour attempt to open the box, I gave up.  I needed to get to the cemetery to place Easter bouquets on my parents and grandmother's graves.  I decided that on my way home I would try to find a bricks and mortar locksmith, as the ones listed in the phone book were mostly mobile units that would come out to your location to unlock a car.  No one I spoke to was really interested in opening my little metal box.   

I figured that the City of Bellflower would be the best place to start my search, as it is somewhat of a blighted town.  It seems that I have stereotyped locksmiths, believing that they seek out the places where rents would be cheap.  It was a surprise to find that Bellflower is sprucing up a bit which made the search somewhat more interesting, and eventually I found what I was looking for. 

Upon spotting a sign that read, Lock & Key, I pulled into what I thought was a parking lot.  Turns out it was a used car dealership, but the lot was practically empty.  I really didn't want to try to find another spot somewhere else because I was ambulating with the use of a cane, due to a pinched a nerve in my lower back.  I decided to take the chance and leave the car parked in the lot.  As I was walking, a woman came towards me, greeting me in a friendly manner.  I immediately began to apologize for parking in the lot, but she explained that she was parked in the lot as well.  It turns out she was in the process of opening a boutique next door to the locksmith.  We chatted about the risk of parking in the lot which actually seemed to be no risk at all since she parked there everyday.  More conversation revealed that her name was Kathy and she invited me to visit her after I finished with the locksmith. 

As I shuffled into the locksmith shop, I was greeted by a friendly man named William.  I told him my problem and handed him the metal box.  After his examination and several attempts to open the box, he explained that the only way he could open it was to break the combination lock.  I told him that I wasn't ready to do that yet and said my farewell. 

Disappointed, I hobbled over to Kathy's place and kibitzed with her for a few.  I purchased a nice wallet for three dollars to replace my old one.  I asked her why her prices were so cheap.  She replied, "recession."  We laughed and talked, and I was crowned her first customer.  She didn't even know how to work the cash register yet which made us laugh.  She explained that her daughter was coming later that day to show her.  This took me by surprise as she looked to be around 25-30 years old.  No, she laughed, "I have children in their forties and I am retired from the school district."  I told her that she needs to bottle her secret for youthfulness and sell it in her shop!

After my goodbyes to Kathy and the promise that I would return, I got in my car (which thankfully was still in the used car lot) and made my way home. 

Later that evening I sent my two brothers an email asking if by some chance they knew the combination to the lock.  Both responses were negative.  My son also made an attempt to open the box.  After an Internet search we discovered that a three digit combination has a thousand possibilities.  It further indicated that if you start at the beginning, i.e., 000, 001, 002 and so forth, entering 100 codes for 10 days, you will open the lock.  We tried again using every conceivable date of any significance in my parents' lives and then began with the Internet suggestion.   This is by far too tedious and after awhile you forget what combinations you already attempted. 

This morning I woke up and had coffee with the blue metal box.  I said a little prayer, hoping that by some miracle I would connect with the correct combination of numbers to no avail.  Finally I thought this is silly, just break the lock, but in the end I just couldn't do it.  I have decided to wait for RJ to come home this weekend and see what he can do.  If anyone understands how sentimental I am, he certainly does.  

Coffee, Tea and Mom

I am about to make a big investment in a commercial espresso/cappuccino machine for my home.  Whenever I am about to do something like this, I miss my mom.  Even at my age, I usually discussed any big purchase with her.  It was not to get her approval, you see, my mother was the most astute shopper I knew.  She could smell quality at a bargain, although she would remember any "bad" purchase and freely admit, "it was junk."  She was my Consumer Report.

When my washing machine went on the fritz, I purchased a new Maytag and fretted for weeks prior about the higher price.  Mom and I always discussed the fact that they just didn't make things the way they did long ago, when an appliance would last thirty plus years through the reign of terror of large families and everyday use.  Growing up, I could never remember getting new appliances.  "Things just lasted back then", she would say.  But in the end, she told me that I would not regret it and six years later (knock on wood), I haven't. 

At the time I had to buy a new car and I was sick over the notion of a car payment, my mother calmly told me that the time would go fast and I would not regret it.  Again, knock on wood, I have had my PT Cruiser, the car I really, really wanted for seven years.  The three years of car payments did go fast and it still looks brand new, drives well and is just now going in for a bit of work -- fixing the power steering. 

I wonder now what would my mom say about this espresso machine I want.  "Well, it is not my cup of tea", would probably be her first words and we would laugh at her innuendo.  Yes, she preferred tea, but she would be open minded to my love of coffee.  I would hem and haw, debate the idea of owning this type of machine, while my mom would come back to me several days later with all the facts, pros and cons, and the best machine to buy for the best price.  And, my gut tells me that she would remind me of the money I sink into "gourmet" coffee drinks.  This alone would have her saying, "give up those frappacinos and the machine will pay for itself in less than a year." 

My mom wasn't so rigid that she would have labeled me frivolous for wanting an espresso machine, something that is a want and not a need.  She understood that emotion, although I could never talk her into buying herself a dishwasher.  No, she would have celebrated my purchase with a fabulous gift of hard-to-find gourmet coffee beans or perhaps some designer espresso cups.  She would tell me the history of the beans, where they were grown, or some unknown fact that only an astute shopper such as she would be able to dig up.  Just like with the purchase of my car, she gave me a "traveling angel" to clip on my visor to keep me safe, or the lingerie bags she gave me to wash delicates when I got my new washer.  

It's strange how you become so conscious of someone's contribution to your life, especially with the small things, after they are gone.  Having said that though, it makes me aware of how much they are always really with us, even while trying to decide on a machine that makes coffee.  I often wonder if I let my mom know how much I valued her and how special, fun and interesting she made what we can perceive as the mundane things in life.  I think we all do this to an extent and I have to believe she knew how I felt. 

I obviously know what my mom would say and what she would do if I discussed this espresso machine thing with her.  Now it is just left for me to do the leg work and buy my own hard-to-find, gourmet beans. 

  

Seattle or Bust

While checking my emails last night, I noticed that my gal pal cousin in Seattle was online.  I decided to IM her to check on her mother, my Aunt, who is recovering from a serious illness.  I learned that my Aunt is getting stronger each day, music to my ears.

We continued to chat about family matters when I mentioned that I wanted to get to Seattle sometime this year for a visit.  She wrote back that her sister's church was having their Annual Scrapbooking Weekend at the end of February. 

Spur of the moment, spontaneous, call it what you want, I checked out fares and found a flight for $100 round trip.  My cousin immediately responded, "BOOK IT DAN-O", and so I did.  This is the only way that these things happen. 

A couple of years ago I attended a Ya Ya Sisterhood weekend with my Aunt and these cousins in Arizona.  It was unforgettable.  This will be another one of those great weekends -- girl stuff, easily entertained, rejuvenation at its best, along with a York Peppermint Patty Mint on my pillow!

My cousin told me to get my supplies packed which made me laugh.  I have thousands of photos and thousands of dollars in scrapbook supplies, however, I have never attempted to create even one page.  Where do I begin?  Thank God I will be with experts. 

With over over twenty-five years invested in researching our family history, I have created notes and charts that would not make sense to anyone but me.  It was only last year that I got serious in at least grouping my paraphernalia together, labeling it as I go and scanning photos into family folders.  It is an overwhelming task, but I desperately want to record everything for my children, brothers, cousins and Aunts.  I even subscribed to Ancestry.com which has helped immensely in organizing the information as well as digging up more.  (Ancestry.com is a great tool for documenting your family's history and is worth every penny of the subscription).

So now it is Seattle or bust, (surely no bust with this gathering of gals, no pun intended).  I am off and running, happily "forcing" myself to accomplish something with the help of my cousin sisterhood, where there will be much laughter, chit chat, reminiscing, probably a few tears and another memorable moment to record.  Most of all, I get to give my Aunt a great big hug!

The Final Salute

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's service to Country and Corps."

These were the words spoken to my brother as the 1st Sergeant handed him the precisely folded flag that moments before had draped my father's casket.  Like all of us, I have had some defining moments in my life, moments that changed me, made an impact and/or enlightened me.  My Dad's passing was such a moment. 

The service was dignified, emotional, highlighted with moments of light heartiness and profound respect as my Dad was eulogized and laid to rest. It was a reminder just how important it is to maintain ritual and tradition because it makes us think, it makes us feel and it allows us to grow. 

Friends, family and military comrades gathered together in moments of both religious and patriotic ceremony.  As the bagpipes played, the Marines stepped softly, gently as to not disturb one of their comrades who is now standing before the face of God.  Their arms swung ever so slightly at their sides in a measured, precise, yet light and effortless rhythm.  Solemn and focused, it was a powerful image.  

It was the salute though, the final salute that transformed me.  It was graceful, beautiful, and respectful, a prayer in itself.  It was the closet thing I have seen to perfection in my lifetime.  The image of those Marines saluting my father spoke volumes and it will never leave me.  These men, in their absolute understanding of honor, paid final respects to one of their own who had long ago passed the baton.  Their message was clear.  They will never forget a fellow Marine. 

The Sergeant Major, my Dad, was a member of that dwindling group born of the Greatest Generation.  He served in WWII, Korea and Vietnam.  He hailed from a small copper smelting town in Montana, of parents who struggled and sacrificed with the rest of the community.   He married, and had three children.  He was not a perfect man, but he was a great man. 

My father passed from this life and entered eternal life on January 3, 2009.  He was one of the few, one of the proud.  He was my Daddy. 

The To-Do List

Today I made a to-do list with eighteen things to do. I need to get my bearings because days have become nights and vice versa. There is always so much to do. The day started out fairly well, up at 3:00 a.m., drank coffee while watching Morning Joe, did my chores (chores, LOL), showered and was out the door by 8:30 a.m. to do some banking (three different banks), get some dog treats (we have been out for a week) and get to the hospital to see my Dad.

I was on track and my day was humming along. I did spend about four hours with my Dad because I hate the thought of him being in the hospital alone. He was having some distress but he can't tell me anymore how I can help him. My plan is to bring him home next week because there is nothing more they can do to preserve the quality of his life at the hospital. He should be home with us. When I left today, I walked back into his room twice to make sure he was asleep and resting. It is so difficult to leave him behind.

Once home, there was a huge U-Haul truck in my driveway and I could see my daughter, her father, her friend and my significant other unloading furniture, more yard sale stuff as well as swapping some of my furniture out for hers. She has been planning on moving back home temporarily for the past two months. I guess today was moving day. No one gave me the heads up. I could tell the street sweeper had not been yet and my daughter had moved all the cars out of the driveway back onto the street. I reminded everyone that the sweeper would be by any minute, but no one seemed to hear me.

I went into the house, dropped my bags and again reminded everyone that the street sweeper would be coming soon, as they were carrying stuff upstairs to her room. I got a few dirty looks. Did I mention that I live on a cul-de-sac and they sweep both sides of the street on the same day, so the cars have to be off the street.

As I walk outside, sure enough, here comes the sweeper. I started yelling for everyone to grab keys, dropping a few F bombs in the process. As I am running out to move my car, I look back and watch as everyone stands there looking at me. More F bombs! I start my car up, driving slowly down the street, while my daughter finally starts moving my father's car. I look over at RJ (my significant other) who is busted by the sweeper. I am ticked.

After the sweeper goes by, I park my car on the side of the street that was just swept. I am being told by all the slow pokes that the sweeper guy said not to worry since we were moving, we wouldn't get tickets. "Sure", I said, "just wait until the ticket police come by." I looked down the street, and she was two doors down giving my neighbor's son a ticket.

I stood on the curb as she drove up and parked behind my car. She yells out of the window, "are you moving?" Duh lady, see that big ass U-Haul truck taking up my driveway. I said, "yes." "Well, I won't give you a ticket today", she said, "but remember that Thursdays are street sweeping days." Funny that she was telling me this, the one who was telling everyone else that the sweeper had not been yet and didn't get the memo that today was moving day! I bit my tongue and said, "thank you."

Of course, I had to hear how I over reacted! Yeah, right, we just got lucky.

The next thing I know my cell is ringing. It is my son who is up in the mountains and needs a favor. "I left a check in your desk drawer and I need you to go to the bank for me and deposit it." I don't know my account number off hand, is your computer on? I can tell you how to get the account number online."

I sit down and turn on my computer. It took some time to find his account number, but I did find it. Back in my car, I am off to the bank. I start to wonder why everyone else's emergencies are my responsibility. Am I doing anyone a favor by rescuing them? Food for thought.

I find the bank without any problem, park and enter. I walk up to the customer service line and wait. Once I was at the head of the line,each available service rep shoved a "closed" sign in their window. "Gee", I thought, "is there something wrong with me, hello do you see me?" I looked behind me and I was the only person in line!

Finally, it's my turn and I hand the teller the check. He informs me that he cannot deposit it because my son is not physically there with me. If my son was physically there, I wouldn't be! I tell him to get me a manager which he does. She informs me that they can't deposit the check without the account number. I inform her, as I did the teller, that it is written on the back of the check. "Oh, in that case, we can deposit it for you", she says. Then she tells me that I don't need to get huffy with her. I just looked at her and explained that I wasn't getting huffy, I was merely explaining to her that the fellow had told me my son needed to be present. She repeats, like I was stone deaf, "we only need the account number to make the deposit." Am I in the twilight zone? I just agreed with her,and she then tells me, "it's okay, I am getting ready to go to the malls after work and I am going to bitch the cashiers out, I just know it." I think to myself, "you already know this"?

Once I am back in my car, I begin to realize that I have had a full day and only six of the eighteen things on my to do list have been completed. I have three more things that I need to add to the list for tomorrow so that brings my list to fifteen items for tomorrow. Oh well, at least I can measure exactly how far behind I am. Hopefully tomorrow will be more productive!

Missing Thanksgiving

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, the country's traditional holiday for cooking up a big turkey dinner, and sitting down with family and friends to enjoy the fruits of our labor.  It is a day that we come together and reflect on the many blessings that have been bestowed on us. 

This was a different Thanksgiving for me.  At my ripe old age, it was the first Thanksgiving in my lifetime that one of my parents would not be sharing my table.  I don't want to sound sappy, but as I tinkered about the kitchen yesterday morning I couldn't help myself from resorting to tears.  Oh, I wasn't wailing, but the lump in my throat and the watery eyes were getting in my way as I tried to function through my normal activities. 

My mom passed in January of 2005.  Every holiday, birthday or special event that year became a challenge for me, down to the very little things.  It wasn't that I could not do those things, it was how strange it all felt without my mother there.  I remember fearing who was going to make the gravy for the Thanksgiving dinner, our expert at this art form would not be there.  While I stood over the stove that first Thanksgiving without her, trying to remember exactly how my mom did it, I felt guided and I knew she was standing next to me with her hand on my shoulder whispering, "you can do this baby girl."  2005 ended up being the year I finally made great gravy, and it tasted just like my mom's. 

The fact of the matter is that it is not about the perfect gravy.  It is about the perfect love which is what my mother gave me throughout our time together.  We were absolutely not the perfect family by any means, but as mother and daughter we were bonded together in a way that I truly did not understand until she was gone.  I miss her.

This year, my father lies in a long term, acute care hospital giving it everything he has to recover from a cerebral vascular accident, a stroke.  At one point during his ordeal, he was placed on hospice and the doctor told me that there was nothing more they could do for him.  While he has made a miraculous recovery by medical standards, physically he is unable to participate in life as he once knew it. 

My Dad is by no means a huggy/kissy sort of man, but he has tried in his own way to contribute by helping me navigate through our family holiday rituals since Mom left this earth.  For the past three years, we have made the yearly trek to Costco to buy the turkey and all of the trimmings.  He would support his worn body by pushing the cart as I would guide him through the massive crowds.  After about twenty minutes, I would suggest that he sit in one of the big recliners on the furniture aisle and rest, while I would hurriedly snake through the crowds to finish the shopping.  Upon my return, he would peruse the cart and remind me of the things that I had forgotten in my haste.  On our way to the checkstand we always picked up four bunches of flowers to take to the cemetery, two for Mom and two for grandma.

There was no trip to Costco this year and although I cooked a small turkey for the sake of having leftovers, there was a lack of warm and fuzzy, and an emptiness that I am sure is part of a natural process one goes through in these situations.  The food was good, but I didn't set a fancy table and I didn't have a crowd to feed.  It was all quite casual and very, very quiet. 

After dinner, I pureed some of the food to take up to the hospital.  My Dad is on a strict eating regiment to prevent him from aspirating food which would create a slew of problems.  I thought he would enjoy having some home cooked treats, albeit pureed, but after two bites, he began to doze off. 

I honestly never envisioned this day when my parents would not be at my Thanksgiving table, or my family would be spread out so far that coming together for these holiday rituals would no longer be the norm. 

This morning my brother from out of state called me.  We chatted about Dad and other things before moving on to discuss what we each did for Thanksgiving.  His daughter and her boyfriend came for a few days and the three of them tackled cooking a turkey dinner for the first time.  He reported that some things were pretty darn good while other things just sucked.  The best part of his story though was naturally about the gravy.  He indicated that the end result was a thick, lumpy, white, spreadable disaster.  I laughed because in our family it is all about the gravy. 

My brother said, "I kept saying, mom's gravy was brown and this was white, it tasted just like flour!"  His description was so funny that I roared.  Yes, I remember that spreadable white paste, as I experienced the same result when I first tried to make it.  I asked him if he added water to the flour and drippings and he said, "no, just two cups of flour."  I choked.  I gave him some tips on what to do for the next time he attempted to make gravy.  I laughed even harder as he told me he had bought two cans of gravy to have on hand just in case!

After I hung up the phone, I realized again that I have now moved to the top of the food chain.  I am the oldest and the one giving tips on how to make the infamous gravy.  I started to laugh again and I could hear my Mom laughing too.  She would have got a real kick out of my brother's attempt to make gravy.  I realized that I had one more thing to be thankful for, something so simple but so important.  I am so thankful that I listened all those years as Mom explained the art of gravy making and I will be ever so thankful for the love that she put into it.