Legacy

    

    My Dad knew everything about everything. I guess had he been born in ancient times he would have been hobnobbing it right there with Socrates or Plato.  During night time walks as a child he would point out every plant, rock, or star and share their Latin name and classification. I just nodded to placate him because I knew our walk ended up at Dairy Belle.

   On the sunny August day he died from prostrate cancer it happened to be a full moon. 

   Inevitably, I  always think of my Dad when I see the moon.  And you know what? Sometimes, I even talk to it. I might scold it, or I might I fill it in with day-to-day news, but mostly I just greet it- like an old friend.

Optimism

 

  I read somewhere that some poor fool had suggested that parents dump the old art that was created by their children.

   What?

   Now, I don't want you to think my house should be on an episode of "Hoarders," or something like that but I simply say, "Pshaw," to that.  I keep that art- not all of it- just a few pieces, mind you.  I  get a kick, a lift, a grin out of looking at my kid's old art.

   I can't describe it.  First, I initially travel back in time to that time period. I remember the clothes, their favorite t.v. shows, their bad haircut, and whatever horrible song I had to keep playing on Radio Disney for them.

   And then I look at the art.  And often I sigh. I see the broad strokes. I see how large they draw themselves in relationship to other objects. I see the boldness, and the lack of fear, or apprehension. And for that tiny moment I want to go back, but inevitably reality kicks back in and the moment is gone.

Unfinished

 

    My mother's best friend Nancy has been in hospice twice now in the past three years. And I would be expecting absolutely NOTHING less from her.  Two years ago I flew out right when school ended to say,"good-bye," but instead she rallied, and was transferred to a skilled nursing facility.  Many phone calls and cards later, and even a brief summer visit resulted in me learning she was in hospice once again. I was told she was sleeping all day, and barely taking any nourishment. 

     So, you can kind of understand why I wasn't surprised at all when I got this text, " I'm sitting with her now, and she woke for a half hour. She is speaking, and drank a power shake. "

    She's a no-nonsense kind of woman who survived the both the depression,  and WWII.  She left the small town of Oxford, North Carolina to try her hand at a singing career in New York in the early fifties.  She once described herself to me by stating, " I don't suffer fools gladly."

    She's tough, strong and gentle.   In addition, she has always done everything on her own terms.  

    And I guess she isn't done yet.

Still Not Hatched

     I swear I read every chapter of that What to Expect when you are Expecting, and I'm pretty sure there was no chapter on adult children living in the home, or returning to the home.

     Whaaaat?

     I feel cheated.

     You guessed it. I have two "twenty somethings" back in the nest. One I am trying to re-launch, and the other I'm trying to get ready for a local four year university, as he got a late start. 

     My daughter heads off to southern California next month to a world of even more uncertainty, as she chases her film editing career.  She has chosen a profession that is not only a very competitive industry, but also one that is full of rejection.

     My son has finally tentatively chosen to return to school full time, and chosen an area of study.  After two years of struggling with depression and anxiety (with all the bells and whistles of the pandemic mixed in there) he may have just come out the other side?

    Mom does likes to complain but trust me on this: she WILL sit on this nest as long as it takes. 

 

Patterns

 

   Myself, and my three siblings were raised by my father. My mother got sick when I was almost four and though she fought hard to come back to us (during her two plus years of  extensive rehabilitation) sadly, it was not meant to be. I  remember reading in her medical records that she got very angry when told that my oldest sister had said she didn't need to rush home, and not to worry, that she had  managed to teach us  how to make our own beds. I remember holding that old file in my hands. My mother's frustration was palatable. 

    And so the irony of my middle sister succumbing to the clutches of alcoholism and "checking out," on all of us, but especially her own daughter, is not lost on me.

   Familial patterns are hard to break, and ones that involve thirty plus years of addiction are even harder.

   Yet, again this statistic means nothing to a child.