HALLMARK MEMORIES

Well, I had my usual little pre-Christmas cry yesterday.  My mother, gone for 12-1/2 years now, always comes for a visit in December haunting my bittersweet memories of Christmases past.  Every year, now fully aware of the work and worry and love that went into creating Christmas magic for the family, I think of her with deep love and gratitude.  The decorations, gifts, foods, traditions, gatherings...all of it was basically hers to do.  My dad helped with the tree.  It was a division labor in tune with the times.  She didn't seem to mind, and likely couldn't have imagined it any other way, but I know now how much effort went into making the holiday season shiny and bright for a family who mostly took it all for granted.

I know because I've felt the same at times, some years more than others.  I used to go all out with gatherings, outings, and festivities that ran us all ragged and so many traditions we almost had no room for spontaneity.  If I didn't create the Hallmark Christmas and others didn't respond in kind, I'd feel a failure.  Thankfully, over recent years I've left that self-imposed pressure behind.  Less work, relaxed expectations, more help from grown sons and my daughters-in-law and an appreciation for all Hub contributes and always has; I just was too much in my own world of striving for perfection to see it.

Over the past few years I've cut back dramatically on the home holiday decor; this year even more.  I hauled all the bins down from the attic, sorted through them all and chose about 1/8 of the stash of holiday bric a brac to display.  I chose favorite things or things easy to get out and put away.  At first I thought I'd just skip it all this year, but that didn't feel right.  It's still Christmas, after all.  Even if no one will be here to see my home for the holidays, Hub and I will be here and a little Christmas cheer and a tradition or two is nice, even in this most NON-traditional year.

My tears were also triggered yesterday by deciding to turn on some Christmas music.  Alexa chose a "holiday favorites" station for me and right out of the gate there was Dean Martin singing "Let It Snow".  I was transported to my childhood, singing along with my dad to these oldies on the car radio.  I was in the warm kitchen, dancing with him as mom baked.  I was parked in front of the TV, watching the Christmas specials with my mom and grandma, who lived with us.  Mom loved the Andy Williams and Perry Como shows, my grandma loved Lawrence Welk.  I loved them all -- the songs, the decorations, the holiday outfits, the fake snow...

Which brings me to a new tradition this year for Hub and me.  We are watching Hallmark Christmas movies together every night.  There are dozens of them!  I had not been a Hallmark Christmas gal until last year when my daughter in-law's good friend, a New York actress/singer, had a small part in one of them.  Of course I had to watch.  And I loved it.  I watched a couple more and vowed that this year I'd go all in.  

I tried to get Hub interested, but naturally he declined with a bit of an eye roll.  "You go ahead; I'm not interested."  I continued to tease and cajole, until one night, in a moment of tenderness toward me I guess, he said he'd watch one with me, as a lark.  He liked it!  We've had a nightly date now for over a week and look forward to the most recent incarnation of the usual plot (a variation on about three themes), evaluating the Christmas decor, locations, sets, costuming, wholesomeness (every time the drink of choice is "hot coco" we laugh), the chaste love story (apparently it takes only one week to find the true love of your life) that is consummated with the final scene kiss.  It's silly good fun.

I think this Covid-19 holiday season we are looking for some escape from the sadness, the isolation, the loss of tradition, the grief of missing families and friends gathering.  Watching it play out in the fantasy of a Hallmark movie somehow makes me feel less deprived.  

I get up every morning in the early darkness, and sit by my tree, lit but to date still without ornaments, looking around at the sparse decorations and feel grateful for all I have.  And I think of my mom, so near to me this time of year, wishing she could be here for Christmas too, one more time.

At least, that's the view from here...©

DRUNK ON NUTTY LOVE

Do you know any sloppy drunks?  You know, the kind that after a few cocktails get all maudlin and sad and wax philosophic about the human condition, or express their deep and abiding love for you and every other living thing with the utmost sincerity (at least in the moment), as they cling to your hand, hug you too long, or gaze blearily into your skeptical eyes?

That's me at some point over the holidays, but without the booze.  It's short-lived.  Mostly I'm not a fan of the forced intimacy and expected good cheer of Christmas, but there is generally a moment when it all comes into emotional sharp relief and I get drunk on love and gratitude.

And that moment often involves a "visitation" from my mother.  She's been dead for 9 years, but around Christmastime she decides to float on back and hang out with me.  Even as I write this the tears are falling because she is punishing me with her love again.  She is forgiving me for being judgmental, rude at times, dismissive; for taking her for granted.  She is reminding me that she loves me anyway, in that Christlike way of mothers, and that her sacrifices were made from her heart and because she had no other choice.  Love just is.

She's also sort of smug about watching my pity party of longing to sit and talk with her.  "See?  NOW you miss me!  Now you're 67 years old and your "kids" are grown and you worry about them anyway, your grandkids are precious but exhausting, your eyesight is a struggle and for some reason you can't hear your husband quite so clearly as you used to when he turns his head away and keeps talking.  You nod asleep in front of the TV at night and you wake up way too early in the morning.  You try to keep your body healthy, but you share my sugar addiction and losing weight is hard!  The world is moving so fast and sometimes it all seems confusing and overwhelming and you think war, famine, and pestilence are just around the corner, especially with a crazy Republican in the White House!  You think a lot about the past and have some new curiosity about your genealogy.  You realize you are the only one left of your original family and that particular loneliness is completely unexpected. You wish I was around to talk to about all of this.  You wish you could tell me you are sorry for being so impatient with those very same issues when I talked about them.  Well, nope!  I'm dead!"  And she smiles -- with love, wisdom, and bit of quiet self-righteousness.  (She was not an overtly vengeful person, but she could "silent treatment" you into submission.)

So, there's all that and also the memories of Christmases she created, the food, the decorations, the gifts, all the usual family Christmas stuff that she pretty much did single-handedly (see: "taking her for granted" above).   Some of that I've retained, some I've let go.  But I have a deep appreciation for her, for all of it, and I do wish I could tell her so.

The other day I remembered a tiny tradition that I'd nearly completely forgotten over the years.  Mom used to buy mixed shelled nuts.  You see them in bins in the produce section:  almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans, Brazil nuts.  She had a wooden bowl, the same bowl each time, where she'd put the nuts and the nutcracker and picks.  The bowl sat on the kitchen table and I remember my dad, more than anyone else, sitting in his place at the table, bowl before him, as he cracked and ate with delight.

I don't think my granddaughters have ever seen nuts in the shell, have ever cracked open a nut to find the meaty prize inside.  Today I got Mom's bowl down from the top shelf where it has been ignored for years, filled it with nuts I bought at the grocery store, placed cracker and picks atop the pile, and now it awaits the arrival tonight of the family for our traditional Christmas Eve buffet.

Like those nuts,  Mom and I often bumped up against our unique tough exteriors, but inside there was the reward of dense, sweet substance, different each from the other but still a delight.

If she was here, I'd cry into that bowl, drunk on love.  I guess, actually, that's exactly what I'm doing.  Her spirit is here with me, happy to see me and asking why in the world I didn't bake any Christmas cookies?!?

At least, that's the view from here...©

REMEMBRANCE

My mom died nine years ago this morning.

It was a day just like this bright and sunny July 10th.  I had been sitting vigil at the hospital for 12 hours each day since July 5 when she had a massive stroke; I had spent the night that first night, not thinking she would live until morning.  She did, although she never regained consciousness in the next 5 days.

Still, I was there, talking to her, stroking her arms, brushing her hair, holding her hand, laying my head on the pillow next to hers.  I brought in family photos for the windowsill and placed the flowers on her bedside table.  Hub was with me most of the time.  Our oldest son came home from his college town to see her; our younger son, home on summer break, held down the fort at the house, stopping in periodically at the hospital.  I called the rest of the far-flung family and held the phone to her ear as they talked to her; I didn't hear their words but I assume they expressed their love and appreciation for her.  Was she aware of any of that?  I don't know...

On the morning she died, I got off the elevator with my Starbucks mocha and had a big smile on my face as I prepared to greet the nurse coming toward me. I had gotten to know the nursing staff, the custodial staff, the Hospice workers.  All were gentle, caring, respectful, friendly, compassionate people.  This morning, though, the nurse came came to me with a look that could only mean one thing...she enveloped me in her arms and said, "She passed about a half hour ago."  I was not shocked, but I burst into tears.  I was sad and relieved.  Her 5 years of a subtle, then precipitous decline into dementia and physical weakness were over.  She did not want to "linger" and she really didn't.  Her stroke came on suddenly and then she was gone.

The Hospice harpist happened to be on the floor...she had learned of my mom's death just before I arrived.  She waited there for me and we entered mom's room together.  She played while I sat at my mom's bedside, weeping.  Truly she was an Angel in that moment.  I will never forget the sense of awe and peace her music elicited as I spent the final moments I'd ever have in my mother's presence.

I'm not sure why I needed to recount all that here, for others to see and read.  But as with any other post in this blog, my hope is that by sharing my life, I'm touching that of another.  There is reassurance in knowing that the human experience is shared.  We are not alone.

I miss my mom every single day.  Sometimes I feel her close by...like right next to me!  But other times, like today, she is only a memory.  I am honoring her in my heart today, with recollections of her love, her hugs, the firm grip of her hand on mine that last time I sat with her before her stroke, her smile, her laugh, her holding my babies, her amazing talents in undertaking almost any job, from hammers to hair cuts, from baking to painting (walls and landscape canvases!), her pride for her family, her stoic determination, her introverted need for quiet, for her tidy and organized home and the flowers in her garden.

After the arrangements were made for her cremation, there was little else to do until planning for her memorial service began.  We'd decided to hold it a month later, in Illinois, her home before she'd moved to Washington in 1996 to live near me.  So we packed a couple of bags and left town.  I needed a change of scenery, to breathe, to grieve, to heal.  We have a little place in North Idaho.  So we went.  And that is where I write from today.  It's all flooding back, even the trip to Idaho.

Here's what I know:  Unless there is crazy pathology or abuse in family relationships, you will find that in spite of any differences, disagreements, or arguments; in spite of petty squabbles, misunderstandings, or simply 'putting up with' the weirdnesses of various family members....you will miss them when they are gone.  Make peace with those you love every day, forgive the annoyances,  and celebrate the good in each other.  It's lonely to be the last one standing in your original family.  I am that.  And some days, I just want them all back, with all the flaws and flailings we all brought to the mix.  Me included.

At least, that's the view from here...©

KAUA'I AGAIN

Aloha!

Back here for our annual Kaua'i respite.  This is my early morning view from the terrace, becoming more and more busy with folks coming down to the coffee bar for caffeine and pastries.   Groups of elder folk (this means anyone obviously older than me) and youngers with little kids (kids younger than school age).  This time of year travel is for those who don't have as many responsibilities and commitments tying them to the mainland, I guess.

We got in on Thursday after a 6 hour flight that was informative regarding the various euphemisms the flight crew employed to describe frequent turbulence… "a few bumps"; " 'chop' over the Pacific; "a little shake".  Hmmmm….. I must have had just the right amount of meds on board because my flight anxiety stayed fairly under control with a little deep breathing; a little visualizing a peaceful scene.  God, I hate flying.

The problem up there was the massive low pressure front still creating 120 MPH winds pushing at our little 737.  That system had created huge swells of Pacific Ocean rushing onto the Islands' north shores creating 40-50 foot waves the day before we flew in.  Yowza!  That's a lot of water hitting the beach!  We saw photos, saw signs at the airport when we landed warning tourists heading north of flooding and closed roads.  We stay on the east side, on a protected bay, that has been calm as a lake.  Just like I like it.

We've been coming here for 15 years.  Flying in just before landing felt like coming home, as we cruised alongside the island landscape that has become so familiar to us.  I love familiarity and a sense of belonging.  Yet….this time I'm feeling antsy.  I'm a little impatient.  I realize I'm feeling like I'd like to see and experience something new.  Hub is a little startled by this admission.  He is usually the one pushing me to move out of my comfort zone and here I am fussing about wanting to branch out in my "adventuring". (This might mean a Marriott on a different island…I haven't completely lost my mind!)

The other thing that seems to be nudging at my consciousness is (as is frequently true), thoughts of my mother.  There was a time when she was about my age I suppose, when she used to say she had always wanted to visit Hawaii.  She said it wistfully, as if this was a dream far beyond her ability to realize, and I suppose for her it must have felt that way.  A northern Illinois farm girl of the Depression years, living a subsistence existence, had thought she had realized the pinnacle of success for having been able to marry, raise a family, build a new home in the suburbs, and come to own her own small beautician business.  Travel that didn't happen in the car on a highway was not in the cards -- or at least in her mind's ability to fathom for herself.

Later, when we started coming here, I suggested she might want to come along.  But she was older then, and not interested in travel anymore, and she turned me down.  She said she just didn't have the same desire to go anymore; just wasn't interested.  I think now I should have ignored her and made her come; should have pushed her a bit.  I wish I had been able to give her the gift of a morning like this…the warm air hugging my skin, the gentle breeze like a loving caress, the soft glow of sunrise over the Pacific promising a day where the visual landscape is a riot of tropical color, where birdcall delights the ear.

I don't know if there is a heaven or anything like it.  The more I think about mortality the more I want to believe there is something pleasant "out there"…I hope for my mom she is in a warm sunny place that is far more beautiful than any Hawaiian Island.

I hope for me, that whatever I find after this mortal life has ended, I can get to that new adventure with a minimum of "chop".

At least, that's the view from here… ©

FOOD FIGHT

This one is for the galz.

Is it just me or does junk food seem even more delicious when your man is out of town?

Hub and I are healthy eaters.  Except in December, we almost never have chips, crackers (except those little rice cracker discs), candy or desserts in the house.  We rarely eat white starches -- pasta, rice, potatoes, or crusty breads... hot from the oven... slathered in butter... Oh! I digress!

But the minute he leaves town for some reason, I am all about the "forbidden fruit"-- light on fruit, heavy on forbidden.   Recently, within 2 hours of his departure, I ate a large slice of carrot cake I impulsively bought at the store, while shopping for kale. That was at 10:00 in the morning.  Then I made a batch of popcorn for lunch.  Dinner was pizza and a salad ("I'm not completely crazed", I thought to myself, munching on a forkful of sweet pepper and romaine between cheesy bites of 'za).  Later in the evening I was kicking myself for not grabbing a small container of ice cream while shopping that morning.  I had Greek yogurt and blueberries instead, with granola and walnut topping.  And a cherry.

It might have to do with what I observed as a child.  (Yes!!!  Let's continue to blame my mother for my life-choices!)   My dad was a meat and potatoes guy.  The meat and potatoes should never touch each other.  Sometimes a scoop of corn or beans could also find a spot on the plate, but nothing exotic like broccoli or cauliflower.  So when Dad went to his company conference for one summer weekend each year, we ate.... wait for it.... SPAGHETTI!  CASSEROLES!!!  And sometimes, HUGE TUBS OF BUTTERY POPCORN -- FOR SUPPER!!!!  And my FAVORITE!  CHOCOLATE CAKE AND POTATO CHIPS!  (The absolute perfect combination of sweet goo and salt crunch!  Mmmmm...my mouth is watering.)

So, maybe it's just me and my mom still hanging out when Hub is away.  She's not in this realm anymore, but I do smile remembering those rare days of eating any damn thing we wanted to eat, whenever we wanted to eat it.  It was fun!  Hub's not so fussy as my dad, not at all.  We eat a large variety of really yummy stuff.  But not much 'junk'.  So the Rebel Ivy reaches for the Snickers and throws caution to the wind...

Here's to us, Mom!  The kale will keep.

At least, that's the view from here....©

FROM TEA CAKES TO STARBUCKS

My maternal grandmother lived with us while I was growing up, having lost her husband to heart disease two years before I was born.  When I was a kid, I recall her sisters and often their daughters (my mom's aunts and cousins) occasionally coming for a weekday afternoon visit.  My maternal relatives all were of Norwegian descent and devoutly Lutheran.  So there was no foolishness, swearing, or outrageous behavior.  There was, however, genuine delight in being together, chatting about family and health and the fate of that summer's crops, this being rural northern Illinois and a family of current and former farm folk.  

Around 3:00 Mom would set out "lunch" which was really an afternoon snack, consisting of maybe little tuna sandwiches (no crust), a relish tray, crackers, cheese, and of course, a pot of coffee (Folger's or Maxwell House, brewed) to go with the tea cakes.  This was the best part of the visit from my perspective.  A tablecloth appeared, the good dishes were used, and a small vase of flowers or greens sat as a centerpiece.  Everyone was in jolly humor, joking and laughing about old times and people I didn't know and complimenting Mom on her "lunch".   It felt very feminine -- like a tea party.  It was a time out of time, a break from housework and routine -- a dress-up day for accepting visitors.  I haven't thought about that in years.

But today at Starbucks, it all came flooding back for some reason.  I think it had something to do with the Elder man in front of me in line.  He had the most engaging smile and intense curiosity about this place he found himself frequenting at 2:00 on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.  He had a million questions about the "menu" and some difficulty hearing the young woman who was working the espresso machine.  By the way, these "youngers" need to speak up!  The machine was noisy, the overhead Muzak was loud, other conversations were going on all around us....

Anyway, he ordered a mocha, but wasn't quite sure what he actually received once the drink was in his hand.  He asked what the difference was between an "Espresso Mocha" and "Frappacino Mocha" and did they have both chocolate and coffee in them and why did they come with whipped cream?  The barista was less patient with his questions than she was eager to find out if he also wanted a pastry or something from the cold case.

I guess that's when the vision of my mom's old percolator popped into my head.  I can just imagine Aunt Amy or Aunt Ellen standing at Starbucks in their sensible shoes and cotton print dresses, little straw and net hats perched on their blue/gray heads wondering what in the world had become of "lunch" time?

Now the afternoon respite is a quick meet-up with a friend at a chain store coffee shop, all basically with the same decor, the same menu, the same barista staff trained to ask the same questions, the same hubbub going on as some semblance of conversation takes place in fits and starts amid environmental distractions and cell phone interruptions.  It's what we call "normal"now -- even pleasant.

I don't really harken back to those summer afternoons at my mom's dining room table.  I love Starbucks, actually.  But I could understand the gentleman's confusion and could imagine myself in his shoes.  Actually this is exactly how I feel in the Apple computer store, shopping for the latest technology -- friendly, eager to learn, slightly confused, yet willing to give it a try, and having a hard time hearing and understanding as the young expert at the "Genius Bar" glosses over my questions with a burst of jargon that sometimes sounds like Swahili to my 60+ year-old ears.

So, seeing this fellow ready to leave without ever understanding the difference between a hot mocha and a mocha frap, I stepped forward to explain it to him.   He was most appreciative.  We both decided the occasional addition of "whip" is a good thing.

At least, that's the view from here....©

MOM

These 6 days in July are a tough time for me.  July 4, 2008 was the last time I talked to my mother, saw her smile, held her hand and felt her squeeze mine back.  July 5, 2008 was the day she had a massive cerebral hemorrhage, likely wiping out  at least the meaningful consciousness we identify with healthy brain functioning, except for that part that keeps a body breathing.  July 10, 2008 was the day she died, hanging on far longer than doctors, nurses, or Hospice workers thought she would.

So, these bright summer days so associated with fireworks, parades, picnics, and beach-going remind me instead of shock, sadness, loss, and grief.

My relationship with my mom had historically been a complicated one from my perspective.  She was complex -- at turns rigid, judgmental, and opinionated, while also generous, creative, loving, and gentle.  She loved her family above all else, and what felt like judgement came from a place of worry and care. She often had a glass half-empty perspective on life, expecting the worst.  She came by this stance honestly, based on the hard times of the Great Depression, which formed her, as well as life experiences she'd encountered as an adult.  I felt, at times, that she was hard to please, hard to know, hard to understand--at least when I was also trying to find myself, my way, my identity.  In my youthful arrogance, I was determined NOT to be like her.  (The laugh's on me, of course.)

After my dad died in 1994, she seemed to mellow, and allowed herself to be more vulnerable, admitting she was lonely and depressed.  I lived 2000 miles away.  Together we made a plan, in 1996, for her move to the Northwest, finding a home for her 2 miles from my house.  For several years we were able to finally have a relationship based on mutual love and respect.  I guess we'd both mellowed -- me into a middle-aged realization that life doesn't always go as planned; she into elder years of more ease and acceptance.  We had fun together -- women sharing and connecting about "woman stuff".

And she seemed content.  She spent her time with a few friends in her neighborhood, went to church, took the bus to the Mall, worked in her garden, decorated her home, wrote her historical fiction, walked 2 miles a day, ate well, did her crossword puzzles, sewed, read voraciously, spent lots of time with me and my family.  In other words, she did everything "right" in terms of commonly reported tips on remaining healthy and active into our elder years.

Still, I started to notice the changes in 2003, when she was 83 years old.  Over the next two years she gradually started sleeping late into the morning, not eating well, neglecting her housework, sitting in the same chair for hours on end, forgetting to take her medicines, having trouble with her finances, and becoming addicted to sending money to any charity and sweepstakes "come on" she received in the mail.  At each change, along with an increased number of medical issues, I was vigilant in trying to find the cause and to mediate any deficits.  I was DETERMINED and CONVINCED she would return to "normal" once we figured out what was causing this disruption in the mom I knew.

Finally it became clear we were dealing with a "new normal" -- one with the name "vascular dementia".  The neurologist said the changes in gray matter he saw on MRI and CAT scans were consistent with the damage a life-long smoker does to their brain.  My mother never smoked, but she lived with smokers for most of her life, from childhood until my dad died.  Don't believe second-hand smoke isn't harmful to those around you; it is.

She moved from her small home to an assisted living facility until she needed even more assistance than they could offer, then again to an Adult Family Home.  I was so fortunate to find absolutely lovely and loving places for her to live in both instances, close to my home.  Over the 5 years of her gradual decline into increasing dementia I suspected, as did the doctors, that she may have been having small strokes.  Eventually she could not walk unaided and her confusion at times was profound.  I was often sad and disbelieving that this was happening to her.  It didn't seem fair; she'd always been the picture of health and vitality.

Gradually, however, I gave up on the "fairness" argument and began to see the gifts in the new mom before me.  She was unfailingly polite and even happy, no longer worrying herself with the "what if's" that had plagued her throughout her life.  She was always delighted to see me and my family, joked with her caregivers, enjoyed her housemates for the most part, had a childlike joy and wonder over the most mundane of events, was up, dressed, and a part of the life of the home in which she lived every single day.

Until that day when she wasn't.  She always said she didn't want to "linger" and hoped the end would be fast and painless.  It was.  She had that massive stroke while getting ready for bed and never regained consciousness.  She hung on for several days, quite unexpectedly, until the Hospice nurse suggested there might be some "unfinished business".  Indeed.

The rest of her family had become geographically far flung; she had not seen most of them in many years.  The day before she died, I called each of them on the phone and asked them if they wanted to talk to mom/grandma.   The Hospice nurses said we never really know what a comatose person can understand -- words, the sound and cadence of a voice, a gentle touch -- maybe on some level beyond our comprehension there is a consciousness still aware.  I held the phone to her ear as each member of her family spoke to her, offering her their love and gratitude.  It might be coincidence, I know, but I choose to believe this connection allowed her to let go peacefully and with assurance that all was well in the world she was leaving.

So I think of her these early July days and of that time 4 years ago when I sat vigil at her bedside, holding her hand, resting my head on the pillow next to hers, singing Happy Birthday to her a month shy of her 88th, telling her how much I loved and appreciated her, asking her forgiveness for my naive judgements of her, and telling her I would do my best to be happy, which is all she ever wanted for any of her children.

It's all any mother wants.

At least, that's the view from here....©

DEFINE "SIMPLE"

Voluntary simplicity.  I'm all for it.  There has been a slow erosion of our collective ability to see through the marketing blizzard that keeps us hopping to corporate-sponsored self-interest in our spending and consuming habits.  We THINK we need more, bigger, better.  The end result is an economy in shambles and an environment on the edge of disaster.

Yet, there is a tendency in some circles to romanticize the "good old days" when times were simpler, people were more important than things, and consumerism wasn't a national past-time.   I think a bunch of those words need definition and context: "good"?  "simple"?  "things"?

I am one generation removed from the family farm.  Both of my parents (and their parents, and their parents....) grew up on family farms in the rural midwest in the 1920's and 1930's.  Twenty acres of corn and beans, a large kitchen garden, some dairy cows, chickens, hogs, and horses to pull the plows.  They ate what they grew, slaughtered hogs for sausage and ham, gathered eggs and wrung the necks of chickens that ended up on the kitchen table.  Milk came directly from Bessie out in the barn.

Both of my parents fled this life the minute they could in the 1940's, escaping to the city to find factory work, buy a modest home on an old tree-lined street, and plant flower beds skirting the lawn.

We never went camping when I was a kid in the 50's/60's because my dad's too vivid memories of waking up with ice water in the glass by his bed after the fires went out during the night, of hauling water, tending animals and doing hard, physical outdoor work on the farm every day left him with no desire to re-live this existence for recreational purposes.  He worked hard and was proud that HIS family had a roof over our heads in a home that was warm and comfortable.

They also had no desire to plant a garden.  They had both worked long, hard hours growing the food their families would eat on the farm.  And in seasons when the garden was meager, hunger was a reality.  They not only didn't eat well in that case, they also had little to barter in town for grain, sugar, and flour, further decimating the pantry.  New clothes, toys, Christmas gifts?  Not so much.

Most nights they went to bed at early dusk, bone tired and beaten down, only to get up and do it again every single day of the year.

I guess you could say their life was "simple" and "things" didn't matter, but I'm not so sure those old days were "good" either.

So I get impatient about romanticizing about the "good old days" when discussions of voluntary simplicity and non-consumerism crop up.   Yes, we need to examine our wasteful ways, but returning to a by-gone time isn't my goal.

I want to look squarely at my own weakness for Madison Avenue's influences and become much more discerning about what I need versus what I want.  And that becomes a tricky thing indeed.  I really, really want an I-Phone.  Do I NEED it?  Hmmmm.....  How about that big truck and camper we bought last year?  Need?  Want?  Or our annual trip to Kauai?  Need?  Want?  It seems easy to decide in theory, but there are a million ways in which my life is enhanced by satisfying some wants in ways that are important...experiences and memories are what make a life full and rich.  I want that.  Need, however, is pretty basic stuff:  enough food to keep me from starving, adequate clothing appropriate to the season, shelter from nature's whims.  Finding the balance between need and want is where my energies lie.

Here's what I will do.  I will voluntarily do my best to ponder each spending/consuming decision I make to ensure I am awake and aware of my motives.  I think by doing this I can simplify my life and the choices I make, with an eye toward economic equality and environmental health.  I have some "cleaning out" to do; some "downsizing" some day; that all feels good.

But for now, I also know I want to honor what my parents endured by realizing that our abundance of CHOICE was hard won by the hard work and sacrifice of people who came before us.  They weren't perfect; maybe their own trials made them easy fodder for Madison Avenue too.  But I know that if my garden fails, Costco is right down the street.  They made sure I wouldn't starve; now I need to make sure others, and our planet, do not suffer from the result of my wants outstripping their needs.

At least, that's the view from here....©

BLOOD PRESSURE? IS THAT THE PINK ONE?

Oh, how frustrated I used to be with my mother for not knowing what medications she was taking!  How could she be so out of touch with her own health care?  How could she just 'hand it over' to the doctor and not even know what medicine she was swallowing into her body on a daily basis?  How irresponsible!  She knew, of course, there was the "little yellow pill", "the one I cut in half", and "the light blue capsule".  And she had some idea of which body part or organ each pill was meant to medicate.  But the names of them?  Nah...not important.  Oh, how frustrating!

This morning I went to the dentist for my semi-annual teeth cleaning.  They always do a medication update and today was no exception.  Except....do you think I could recall the names of the four medications I take daily????  Now, in my defense, I have had a recent health issue which necessitated changing one of my medications a number of times to get the most effective one, eliminating one all together, and starting a new one.  So, really, who can keep up????

When asked what I was taking, all I could visualize was "the little round pink one, the big long white one, the oval green one, and the bright yellow one".  Oh, how humbling!

I rushed home, wrote down the names of each, and tucked the list into my wallet.  Just as I'd done for my mother.  I also asked, for the 1000th time, a silent plea of forgiveness from my mom for my many occasions of impatience and self-righteous youthful judgements over the years.  I get it now, Mom.

When we know better, we do better.  Too bad she's no longer here to be the beneficiary of my increasing wisdom.  But on some level, maybe she knew even then....she had a mother too, and was not as patient with her as she could have been either.  This is a lesson seemingly learned only from humbling experience.

At least, that's the view from here...©