A Pearl of a Boy

The grandchildren will be returning from Wisconsin this evening. Hopefully, there will be no ill effects suffered by their innocent psyches from spending too much time in the State of Cheese. Eleven-year-old Ethan continues to be a hardcore Green Bay Packer fan despite numerous rehab committals. Why do we have a problems with Wisconsians? Just get behind one in traffic.
This is Adam. Eight years old and developing definite gangster tendencies. Actually, he makes a fairly good traveling companion. Interesting observer and a heck of a burper. Once he ate an entire sheet of paper to impress three girls. Teachers fear him. His older brother Ethan is a star in every capacity. He has a gentle spirit and a generous nature. He wrote a poem for his fifth-grade girlfriend using the letters in her name and spelling out a positive attribute with each one. He will have his heart broken a few times, this sensitive boy. He takes misfit kids under his wing and always does the fair and decent thing. His mother is a psychologist and his grandmother, an old-fashioned social worker so, he is destined to help the world.

Adam knows what the fair and decent thing is but frequently chooses to take the road less traveled. And in his case it may cost him time away from his precious computer. Who would have known that our burgeoning new technology would provide an excellent means of keeping our children in line?

He has a creative flair that is astonishingly sophisticated for his young age. He sees the world with drama and imagination. When he was three years old we were walking on the beach of the Mississippi and I saw what appeared to be the tracks of a big old Lab. What made these prints, I asked. Two toes were smudged out and he said, a three-toed sloth? As we were leaving he pointed at the mountains of road salt partially covered with black tarps waiting for the winter slush and ice. Look, grandma, he said, it looks like penguins melting. Damn, that's good. He can mimic Elvis Presley, a Briton asking for "a cuppa of tea," and those irritating Teletubbies. He does a great bump and grind, can spend an hour devising war strategy between two plastic army men, and sing a medley of several hundred TV commercial jingles.

He loves all four-footed creatures and wants to be a veterinarian. He already grieves the two pets that have passed away in his short life and he speaks of them as trusted friends. He would also like to be an artist and his work can show people jumping out of burning buildings (isn't that how serial killers start?) or the river as a flowing current of layered blues and greens. He has emptied an entire box of food coloring into a sinkful of water. He has created imaginary friends out of potatoes and cereal boxes. I love when he looks at me and says, "hey Grandma, what if . . . ." I know I am to be treated to the inner workings of an interesting and clever wit.

The world is his oyster and he, the pearl.

A Rare Day Unto Myself

Those are brown-eyed Susans and purple Russian sage and further back you can see the Peosta channel and beyond that is the Mississippi and behind the river is Wisconsin and Illinois.

It's all about shrimp scampi, crusty bread, and a large icy Diet Coke. The newspaper, the crossword puzzle, and a new novel to start. Do I need lunch companions at my table? Nope, already have them.

I awaken early and know that there are no binds on my time today. The grandchildren are at a (shudder) water park in Wisconsin and the Alzheimer's unit has clocked me no hours today - hey, now, none of that - you know I work there. My mother is gone and there are no doctor appointments, rides, or chocolate ice cream to share with her.

I grab a diet Coke from the local Hardee's. They took away my cigarettes, and they can take away my whiskey, but they cannot, they will not take away my diet Coke.

I head for the flood wall for an early walk. There is a small patch of blue sky behind my right shoulder and the rest of the horizon is ribbons of grey, heavy clouds. My cyclist bro Davie Gie pulls up behind me and I question why is he on this tame sidewalk instead of out in the wilds of the prairie country. He says he plans to do 40 miles on pavement and 60 miles on the gravel. I am in awe of the man. We know we are alike as we spend a disproportionate time each day involved in physical activity. Bro says it is the introversion, the endorphins that keep us going. We prefer to be alone and we want to be moving. A psychologist I saw during the last days of my first marriage asked me what I liked to do. I ticked off my reply: reading, swimming, walking. But those are all solitary tasks, he commented. Yep, I said. Not the last professional to see me as odd.

Tony Roma's for lunch. And the new waitress, a young woman who does not know me says the same thing all the others have said before her. "You know dear, there is a lot of chiptole in this dish and it's very spicy. " I always smile and say, and don't we just love it. I want to read while I eat. And this is why I eat by myself. And yes, did you see me in this very same restaurant Friday night with Cowboy Dave ordering this very same dish? Yes, you did. I am known as the Shrimp Scampi Lady by the veteran wait staff. Never order anything else. At the Athenian Grill I am the Soup Lady. Another story, another time. Wait staff love me. I know exactly what I want. I require no refills or additional service once the meal is brought and if there is I do it myself. And I tip heavily.

To the pool. The lady water bouncing next to me asks, "Were you at the cathedral this morning?" I can give her a definite no on that one unless I was there to see the architecture. "There was someone there that looks just like you." Odd. Two nights ago at the Rewind Rock Concert this homely little man in a Hawaiian shirt and suspenders comes up to me and says, "I saw you at the reunion." Now I was at a family reunion two weeks ago so I nodded and he sat down next to me. Shortly thereafter, I realized he was talking about a high school reunion that I had not attended and I did not know him from a garden gnome which he strongly resembled. And then I couldn't get rid of him and the people I were with made fun of the situation and he kept looking over at me every time a slow dance started. Don't you just want to go home? I don't really like people that much. They tend to be nosey, rude, and dishonest. Children make much better companions. Thomas Edison, a famous recluse, once said, "Just how many times does someone actually say something interesting?" He had a knack of leaving his wife's soirees by complaining that his poor hearing could not keep up with the conversation and then he would spend the evening fishing on his dock.

I have been exercising to the extreme since my mother became ill earlier this year and I realize that if I overwhelm my senses I can dull the grief that is lying just under the surface and threatening to break through. Exercise fulfills this requirement as does driving too fast in my car with the windows up and loud, loud music. Sitting in a movie theatre with a noisy, complicated film playing does it, too. And yes, I go by myself. Not having to share my nacho cheese and pretzels is reason enough.

While checking out watermelons in the produce aisle an elderly lady comes up to me and says, "Are you all right, dear?" Well, I put the melon down and just left the store.

Exercise, my Religion

Rain, rain go away, I want to go swimming today. With the skies pouring an ocean of water on my thirsty gardens I had to look to indoor exercise to satisfy the Exercise Monster inside my physique. Decided to do The Exercise CD today. Now I have two exercise CDs. One is 45 minutes long and involves lifting weights and the other is 55 minutes and uses a tone band. They are from the Leslie Sansone CD collection and like most, if not all, exercise DJs, Leslie is as annoying as biting flies before the rain storm. She has an obnoxious, squeaky laugh and she laughs at the slightest thing. You know those people. They are usually sitting behind me at the movies and I want to remind them: everything is not funny. Humor is relative. There needs to be a ratings scale here and if you laugh at everything then nothing is funny.

She also says things like, "Ooooh, sweating feels good!" No, it doesn't. Sweat is greasy and itchy and makes my eyes sting. It's like saying, Ooooh, a runny nose feels good! Just like those endless women's magazines that feature articles on exercise between Can this Marriage Be Saved? and several chicken apricot recipes. They always say the same thing. Exercise is the one thing that we women do for ourselves. If I wanted to to something for myself it would be a scary movie CD, diet Coke and Kessler and a bag of chocolate stars.

In all fairness Leslie needs to be energetic and a non-stop talker. It keeps us huffing and puffing along with her. She is perky and she is peppy. Two of the worse characteristics I can define another human being by. Look at that picture. Her mouth is open like that throughout the entire workout.

Over the years my exercise needs have changed as my body ages and I needed to start thinking of high impact on fragile knees and ankles. And that is what happened with the last CD I had been using. Some guy in Hawaii with black greasy curls and whose mother was one of the exercisers behind him and several blonde nubiles that had trouble counting the reps and moving at the same time. But they would look at Greasy guy with boundless adoration. When you view these CDs hundreds of time you start making up stories about the exercisers to while away the time. Greasy enjoyed his status as Exercise God in the eyes of these too-young-for him girls and he would still have dinner on Sunday with mother. There was a lot of jumping around on that CD and I noticed sharp pains in the joints so moved onto Leslie following a friend's advice.

I like the upper body strength workout. Hauling a jumbo toddler around all week my back muscles had cause to complain. So, I started doing the weights after Adam's birth and I was in prime shape by the time Cameron made her appearance. I started with 3#, and then to 5#, and even 8# for half of the session. Now I hold steady at 5#. Who I am trying to impress anyway? I just want to keep the numbers down (weight, cholesterol, BP.)

Every couple of years Leslie churns out another CD. She's got one that uses spiritual music with the exercise. And the music gets faster as the pace picks up. You have never heard Amazing Grace played at bullet speed? Here's your chance. I see her latest CD has more toys: some sort of wrist weight that attaches with rubber cords to a belt around your waist. I guess the house in the Hamptons must need new carpeting.

Hauled Sonny out to the Mud Lake Bluegrass Festival in the afternoon. The Ditch Lilies were the main band with their big hit, Dead Skunk in the Street. What is it about bluegrass music? Always has to have a little crude in it. And it's a lot like salsa music. After about 45 minutes you're thinking, you got anything else, guys?

Did get a swim in. Silver Surfer shared the lane. She kicked me so I kicked her back. It's a start.

Rough day

Packed up Mom's stuff. We had everything set out in the little bedroom and in the basement. Rows of little Santas, silk roses, sewing baskets, a jewelry box given to her by Leona. Looked like a little second-hand store and all the grandchildren could wander about choosing what they would like to remember Grandma by. Amazingly, Dad did not insist that we get everything out right away so he could re-establish his Marine corp order throughout the house. This is the guy who ten minutes after he opened Christmas presents everything would be filed aways in dresser drawers and cupboard shelves, tissue paper neatly folded and in the recycle bin. Perhaps he liked having this little bit of Mom tucked away into the corners for just a little while.


It's all about stuff, you know. We all have stuff. Even the homeless guy has his plastic bags and swollen coat pockets full of that all important stuff. It was always said that when Gandhi, a truly non-material world kind of guy, died all of his stuff could be put in a shoebox. But he did have stuff. Just not that much.


Mom loved her stuff. She kept little things around her that made her feel good. A Peruvian bookmark Jason had given her. A lap robe from Rita. A small vase from Leona. The latest card from the granddaughters in Florida. After she died I found a small stuffed bunny in her purse. It had been in an Easter basket I had given her in April. She carried it with her to the various appointments and hospitalizations and I like to think it made her feel safe.

When it comes down to it after we're gone those we love remember the stories, the scents, the touch of a hand, the sound of a laugh, and . . . the stuff.

Another hot afternoon in Sonny's basement. I had not been this hot since I was stupid enough to visit Florida in July. My pores seemed the size of nickels and rivulets ran down my face. My hair was slick and I could taste the salt on my lips. I - am - getting - this - done - today. Dad went somewhere on yet another Dad-related chore. And then I started crying. Hiccuppy-kind of crying, the worse kind, like your soul is trying to escape its mortal confines. Holding Mom's little dolls, her necklaces, all her Halloween pumpkins I felt a presence. I had not felt her since the first couple of days after her death. Then she left me and I felt she was lost in a great void that I could not transcend. Not yet, anyway. I felt like she was navigating it as well. I would think the newly deceased need to learn how to be . . . well, gone. But today Mom's spirit felt fidgety - bouncing against the walls. Yeah, I may be losing it but I spent several hours in that overly-heated house talking to Mom, crying, asking Mom, why did you keep this? and oh, Marie, look at that and all the time realizing that this was a special time. A daughter putting away her mother's last possessions. Items that defined her, made her feel comforted, blazed memories in the minds of her children. All the Christmas trees, the vases filled with summer flowers, the sparkly pins I remember from dinners out. The times I looked in my mother's jewelry box while she was still alive and fingered the gold chains remembering when she wore them last. I wrapped up the last item, a little papermache Halloween witch and felt a heaviness in my chest. In a very large way Mom would now be leaving me. We live in a physical, tangible world. And this may be a primitive level to our spiritual self but it is what we know from the first breath. What we can feel and see. Oh, Mom, with these boxes go some of my best memories. But they need to go. I am my father's daughter and I know that setting my sights on a productive tomorrow will help heal the pain I feel in the present. But oh boy, Mom, all of this, your stuff, I'm gonna miss it.

Just a Note . . .

I started recording a history of my mother's life. If anyone is interested please check the 7-31-10 blog titled My Mother, Only Younger Part One. Still learning the process of this blog thing. Thanks for reading.

Little Marie is standing in the front row, first kid on the left, with rolled-down anklets just like her sisters.

This House is Clean

Yeah, she took a picture of the bucket . . .
Managed to get to both adult swims on Saturday and Sunday and feeling rather smug about it. I try to avoid the west end pool on weekends as there are a group of middle-aged walkers that insist on singing Jimmy Buffet songs and stuff from the Eagles and God forbid, the Bee Gees, falsettos and all. Sometimes is it embarrassing to be a baby boomer. Well, actually, most of the time. I think my waistline is a little tighter although I have always had a belly. And I always will have a belly as I have too much appreciation for pasta and late night whiskey.

Yes, the house is clean. With Cowboy Dave in Kansas City it seemed like the opportune time to throw a little bleach and Windex around. Now I have not cleaned anything here since Mom left us and that's not a big deal because I am not a big deal cleaner. I do not encourage people to visit me (yes, another Giegerich recluse) and this is one of the benefits of that action. As a young person I was tied into Mom's insane housework rituals and I balked from the time the Housework Nazi first put that dust cloth in my hand. On Fridays I dusted the upststairs bedrooms and swept the dust balls from under my brothers' beds and scrubbed with the blue Chlorox powder the bathroom sink and tub. On Saturday mornings I was responsible for the double living rooms and this meant dusting, vacuuming the area rugs and mopping the hardwood floor around the perimeter. While my younger siblings lazed through Huckleberry Hound and Mighty Mouse cartoons I slowly made my way through the two rooms and I mean slowly. I would leaf through my Dad's Argyle magazines and read the articles in the TV Guide. Occasionally, my mother would glare at me from the kitchen where she was permanently ensconced but I would just continue my unhurried pace. It would sometimes take two hours. Oh, Mom and I had two completely different perspectives on house work. Now don't get me wrong I have as strong a work ethic as do my mother and her sisters and I have passed it on to my own children but re stacking magazines that would be unstacked within minutes and picking up my teen-aged brothers' underwear were unnecessary tasks, a waste of time. Most of my childhood was spent in fantasy. I was Maid Marion to Robin Hood or Little Joe Cartwright's girlfriend or Baba Louey to Quick Draw McGraw in my youngest days so it did not bother me to lounge around the rooms dreaming my own dreams and moving the dust around. Occasionally, Mom would announce at the end of the travail that "it's not clean enough." She would never indicate just what wasn't clean enough and I never asked so I would begin the dance again. Sometimes my friends would help me so we could get outside sooner.

There were dishes to be washed and tables to be set, cookies to be baked and jell-o to be, well, gelled. I can never remember the other kids doing chores. I suppose they did. I know the set-up in this chauvinistic 60's household was girls do the inside chores, boys do the outside stuff. Hello, we're living in the middle of the city and not out on the farm. I still ended up raking leaves and shoveling snow.

As a newly married lady I matched my mother chore by chore and had each day scheduled for one particular job. Monday was laundry day just like all the embroidered towels would say and my sister-in-law Sheri would laugh at the piles and piles of sheets, towels, and toddler clothing that took over my basement by Sunday night.

I can remember during this time my mother calling me up and asking me to take her to the health store so I packed up all the kids. And when I got there she said, "You know what I did while I was waiting for you? (Hint: you took too long.) You know how dirty it gets around the bathroom sink (I didn't.) Well, I cleaned all that." I think I commented something about did she boil all the light bulbs, too? Mom was right, I was "snippy."

As a divorcee and working full-time and living in rented apartments my housework schedule suffered. I couldn't afford a vacuum cleaner or preferred not to use my hard-earned money to purchase one. I became lax in this department and apathy set in.

Years later when my mother was in her 60's I said to her that I needed to get going as I had cleaning to do. She looked at me and said, why would you want to do that? I was shocked and no reply came to my lips. "You know, " she said, "I've learned as I got older that there are more important things in life than my house." Impressive.

But I can hear things growing in Dave's bathroom late at night two floors above. When I thought about remarrying a second time I had to ask myself some soul-searching questions. Could I do this again? I didn't have much fun the first time around. I went to my good friend Susan. We had both been long-time divorcees, worked the same job, partied at the same bars and for the most part, thought alike in all the important arenas in life. Translation: we were both terrified of marriage. But Susan had caved just a few months before. She had met a gentle, intelligent fellow whose worse fault was a penchant for telling really bad puns. But he had an enormous feminine side, enormous. You could actually take him to chick flicks and he enjoyed them. Susan had fallen in love with this guy after a disastrous break-up from a very long-term relationship. Well," she pondered when I asked her this all-important question. "As long as you have your own bathrooms you should be all right."

So, we did have our own bathrooms, and she was right. But whereas I would clean my bathroom, Cowboy Dave did not. I would hold out as long as possible thinking every person should wipe up their own toothpaste goop. But then he leaves and I sit upstairs thinking, thinking and somehow I find myself in that little room with a bucket of bleach trying not to look too closely at anything,

I had a friend whose father owned several commercial buildings in town and the family would save money by doing the cleaning themselves at night when the office people went home. Ivy would clean public restrooms and she would never tell me exactly what horrors she encountered but she would always sum it up by saying, "men are pigs." And they are.

Even though I have given Cowboy Dave a few curt warning on dirtying my house I can hear him downstairs clipping his toe nails on the couch and they are going to be everywhere.

Oink.

For Sarah

Epitaph by Merritt Malloy

When I die
Give what's left of me away
To children
And old men that want to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you.
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give them
What you need to give to me.

I want to leave you something
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.

Look for me
In the people I've known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live on in your eyes
And not on your mind.

You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands,
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.

Love doesn't die,
People do.
So, when all that's left of me
Is love,
Give me away.