Sprummer Days/Daze

It’s Sprummer here on the Row. That’s the odd fifth season between spring and summer, where one day it’s 94 degrees, and the next day it’s 32 and snaining, and the next day it’s 88 with gale-force winds that twist my prayer flags around a tree.

Pretzel "Trouble" MacTier 

 

Last weekend, though, we had a windless day in the 70s, so Ray and I (mostly Ray) put in the garden. It was another year when we said, “Let’s minimize this year,” then we took out a home equity loan to pay for all the seeds, plants, and supplies we ended up buying. We planted enough tomatoes to roast, can, eat, and give away. We planted enough cucumbers to supply ourselves, the Food Pantry, everyone I know, and still have some to leave (anonymously) in open car windows. Plus peppers, herbs, and baskets of flowers.

Mom’s fairy garden is doing great, with bergenia, hydrangea, and bearded iris, and we planted a calla lily, daffodils, and star flowers in another flower bed for her. Two of her good bridge buddies (one just had her 100th birthday) stopped by with a garden spinner, which we put out in front so they could see it and remember Mom whenever they drive by.

I’ve been sorting through Mom’s things, dispersing little sentimental treasures to the kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Her room still smells like her, and I’ll admit I sometimes just sit in there. It gets easier day by day, though now it seems like she’s been away on vacation, and it’s been long enough—I’m ready for her to come home.

This past week, I went to the Really Big City, my hometown, to visit my dad, who recently moved from the hospital after a fall, to a nursing home. Dad is living with late-stage prostate cancer that’s spread to his bones, so he’s in constant pain. In spite of that, we had good visits, and he was surprisingly cheerful. He’s told me over the years about his “covenant with Jesus” to live to 100. So on this visit, we had a good chuckle over being a little more careful about what one wishes for.

I also got to see my childhood friend, who lives in New York. She and I have been friends since we were 4, when we would call to each other (in our best mourning dove coos) from our front porches after dinner, so we could come back out and play till the streetlights came on. We had brunch, and we laughed over what we remembered and what we’ve forgotten. It was a sweet, too-rare reunion. She was back in the old hometown for her sister’s funeral.

Speaking of yet…another…funeral…, I believe people can handle most tragedies, traumas, losses, and changes, so long as they have time in between—time to process, heal, get help if needed. It’s the pile-ups that’ll get you. Since the first of this year, we’ve lost Mom, Dad’s moved into the final setting & stage of his life, our oldest dog Yogi is dying of cancer, and we’ve lost five friends/acquaintances/community members. Ray and I both retired, our bones are achier, conversations with each other and others now include everyone’s maladies and procedures (we swore we’d never be THOSE people), and we’re all on Covid alert—again. And Uvalde, again and again and again.

So although I’m waking up from the surrealistic past few months of caring for Mom, when I operated on what Mom called “head down, plow forward” momentum, I think I’m feeling the pile-up now. For me, it manifests in extreme fatigue regardless of how much sleep I get and an urge to hermit.

My first best friend

Dad 

But I also think you can weather a pile-up if you have/give yourself/make yourself things to look forward to. And here on this beautiful Sprummer day, the hummingbirds and orioles are back, our Little Town public pool is open and water-walking in the lazy river can commence, the garden is in, and the kids and grandkids are healthy and amazing. We have a sweet, wild puppy to train, and we also have some family & travel plans this summer. So I’ll double up on my B-12 and get back out there in the world. Just after a little nap…

Sprummer Chic

Grief is like a South Dakota spring...

Spring walk with Yogi.

The river waking.

Grief is like a South Dakota spring: You’re outside, smelling all the green, green, green; the sun is shining; birds are happily twittering in the trees. It’s a goll-dern Disney cartoon out there, and any minute bunnies will hop out of the brush pile and start singing “Love is in the Air.” Then suddenly, while you’re standing there with that goofy grin on your face, a 45 mph gust of wind blows up the bluff and slaps you in the face with bone-chilling cold. And in case you’re still standing, the wind’s packing ice pellets.

Gooseberry bushes..approach with caution.

Grief is also like the ocean, which is a slightly tired metaphor until YOU live it. You’re standing there with your toes in the water, you finally feel like you can breathe deeply again, and wham…a huge wave comes barreling in and sweeps you into a giant hole (they’ve probably dug for a new gaudy tourist hotel). This happens less frequently as you learn where to stand, but it goes on indefinitely.

Yeah, it’s like that. Like the other day, I was in Walmart when I got a text saying “Lois [my mom], it’s time to refill your prescription for…” (I managed Mom’s meds for the past year or more). There I was in the toothpaste aisle, digging for Kleenex and pretending I had something in my eye.

Grief can be good, too. I think it helps cement memories. For example, a couple days ago I was organizing Mom’s closet when I came across a white wig. Suddenly, I was transported back to a Halloween prank many, many eons ago, when Mom and I dressed up as her then-husband and Irish bartender Mike, went to the hotel bar where he worked, sat at the bar, and ordered his usual drink. We each wore black dress pants, a white shirt with a pack of Lucky’s in the front pocket, a black tie, a white wig, and black glasses. Mike stood dumbfounded behind the bar, wearing the exact same outfit. Priceless. There I was in the closet, holding the wig and laughing my arse off.

Gooseberries...mmm.

Ray and I are moving slowly but steadily ahead here at the Row. For the first time, we’re intentionally navigating this dual retirement thing. I’ve been going through Mom’s stuff, making little boxes of mementos for all the grandkids. Ray started sorting out our basement freezers, got a bee in his bonnet, and we’ve been working on gooseberry syrup and jam for two days now. Ray’s playing drums with his long-time band pals for the Friday happy hour service at Our Lady of Little Town Cabernet watering hole every week, and he has a few other gigs coming up. I’ve done a couple of poetry readings and have been writing again. I’ll go to our annual Women Poets Collective manuscript workshop retreat and reading later this summer. We’re finding our way.

That dark stuff? That's gold (gooseberry jam).

Next week, though, I leave for my hometown Big City to visit my Dad, who’s in the hospital while he waits for a room at a hospice facility, because, as my granny always said, “There’s no rest for the wicked.” And one of the many lessons I’ve learned since the whole Covid/Mom/Retirement epoch started, is that if you’re waiting around for those “golden years,” or for that time when all the bumps will iron themselves out and life will be all cupcakes and Doritos from then on, you’re going to be waiting a long, long time. Like forever.

Mom was always sooooo serious.