Snakeskin Journey

Wouldn’t you know it?  The day before I leave for home the bluebirds show me they’ve got babies to feed!  I watched today as they flew back and forth bringing goodies to the new ones hidden inside.

Took photos of my incredibly awesome, smart (understatement of the year…ACT score of 35, folks…if you don’t know what that means, look it up), funny, darling niece Kate.  She is graduating high school this coming spring and on to bigger and, no doubt, better things.  These are some of her many faces.

I would never consider stopping at the Dairy Queen when at home in the Santa Cruz area.  No.  Over the past 30 years I’ve perhaps been there twice and then only because I had kids in tow and we’d been at the beach.  Since I’ve been in Southern Illinois (just over a month now) I have gone five times, each time for the same thing: a plain cone.

I grew up patronizing the DQ in Carbondale, pictured above, beginning when I moved here in junior high school.  I recall watching the Jesus People drag a huge cross down the middle of the street while enjoying a Dairy Queen treat.  My children have stopped there every time we’ve visited from when they were babies.  It is an institution.  Sitting on the curb (or wall if the curb is occupied) while eating our quickly melting ice cream of a hot humid day is an essential part of a summer experience–and I’ve done that twice this trip.

Only twice, you say?  I thought you said you’ve been there five times?!  Well, I’m not happy to report this, but I found out some scandalous information.  Steel yourself.  Dairy Queen has grades of ice cream.  Not all Dairy Queen ice cream is created equal and it turns out the Carbondale Dairy Queen to which I have been loyal all of my days uses the lower grade stuff.  According to Gordon (my favorite brother-in-law) the Carterville one nearby uses better ice cream, and so naturally I had to find out.

Sadly, I’m forced to concede that his information seems to be true.  Thus the three other cones, totaling five.  There is a difference in how it melts, in the richness of the ice cream, in the way it stands up to the heat.  I will forever be drawn to the classic neon Dairy Queen sign and the curb in Carbondale, but whenever I pass that Carterville drive thru, my car is gonna loop the building.

This Dairy Queen rivalry—it’s strictly an Illinois thing, you understand.

I’ve booked a flight for my return home and the clock is ticking.  As long as I told myself my stay was indefinite, I could put off facing the very plain fact that my visit has not changed much for folks here.

I would have liked, of course, to leave a nicely tied bow around them all…a gift of time and energy to be opened and enjoyed in my absence.  But that is not possible, nor was it expected.  The situation here—parents aging in both mind and body, sisters worn from their vigil of care, everyday patterns created from decades of rubbing shoulders—it is what it is.  No temporary infusion from me or anyone else can alter this course although I gladly bear witness to the importance of trying to make a difference.

Contemplating the possibility of my mother’s death only to have my mother-in-law die suddenly instead, has raised the issue of what is truly important.  Trying to make a difference is important to me, for instance.  Being quiet is important, especially when one is weary of the drama.  Hugging is important, as is receiving the hugs that come your way.  Oh, and eye contact—looking directly into another’s eyes (windows to the soul, as they say)—now that is important.  Laughing…black humor will do in a pinch…is important.  And crying, that crying I’ve yet to do over the losses and sadnesses that have piled up in the past month, that is important and shall surely come.

Things, all the heaps and mounds of things we humans tend to collect over the course of a life are not so important.  At best they remind others of a life well lived, at worst they divide and sow seeds of discontent.  As I begin to anticipate a return to the little house filled with all of my comfortable, familiar things I vow to remember what is important.

These photos are of my children saying good-bye to their grandparents in Illinois.  They came to bid a final good-bye to their paternal grandmother, Lenore, and of course the bonus is that they were able to see my parents in the mix.  My father had to be awakened—another day spent in bed after much excitement.  My mother is looking marvelous following surgery, but she is not out of the woods yet.  Yesterday was spent in bouts of dizziness.  Each day brings something new, but these photos show that some days are just a bit more precious than others.

This is a mosaic of days 37-72 in my year long photo taking project.  These photos reflect me settling into my new house in California just before being called to help my mother and father in Illinois and then through Lenore’s sudden death.  A lot of ground covered.

This backyard is ringed by large old trees—white oak and ash—and each morning the birds swoop back and forth across the open space,  singing boisterously.  To see pairs of cardinals, the male so surprisingly red and the female a muted echo, is a delight.  I grew up around this area where birds sport bright colors like red and brilliant blue, but I’m unaccustomed to seeing them after my thirty odd years away.

The other day I had to resist an impulse to swerve the car when a cardinal flew in front (it had the sense to navigate quite nicely and avoid me).  The colors!  And the birdsong!  These weeks of sipping my morning coffee to the tunes of midwestern birds, watching the large resident rabbit zig-zag across the lawn, hearing the frogs in chorus…these simple things have healed my soul a bit at the beginning of my day.  And I’m grateful.  It causes me to vow to pay more attention to the unfolding scenes around me every day—the ones we miss in the rush of accomplishment and duty and stress.  I wonder what is unfolding in my own tiny yard back home that I’ve yet to notice in the busyness of my recent move.

I caught the bluebird escaping her nest just now.  She’s sitting on a new batch of eggs and is not pleased that I have taken up regular residence in this old chair in the corner of the deck.  She has a mission now and must suffer my presence for the sake of her babies, but she lets me know with her watchful eye that my morning sanctuary is her morning bother.

Lenore’s homemade coffin, built with love by Mark O’Donohue and lined with pleated muslin by me and four grandchildren:

We buried Lenore yesterday out at her beloved farm-turned-winery.  Back in the woods, just off the entrance drive, is a family cemetery.  Union County allows for such things.  The first family member put to rest there was Peter Dyer Russell.  He died in 1976 just a few weeks before my wedding to Michael.  He was to be the best man, but instead became the 1st order of business when family gathered for the wedding—we had his memorial service just before our rehearsal dinner.  The horrific pain of losing sweet Pete was slightly eased by the celebration of a new family joined.

After that came the paternal grandparents, the tiniest unborn child, and father Bob.  While there was discussion and hope of bringing Michael back to join the rest, we opted to bury him in California where he served his church.  And now Lenore is beside her husband.  She missed him sorely these past five years, often commenting on how she looked forward to being with him again.

The funeral was well attended in spite of the fact that due to age many of Lenore’s friends are now gone.  The heat index was triple digit and the humidity crushing, so the attendance was even more surprising.  One grand-daugther came from Austria with two small children in tow in order to say goodbye and be part of the gathering for her Grandmother Lenore.

Lenore was known for creating a stir as she entered a room, and in a strange turn of events she will be forever remembered for the flair with which she left this world.  At the point when she was being lowered into the ground, the coffin was accidentally and unceremoniously dropped.  Indeed, it fell onto its side and, because one brother had sniffed dismissively at me when I implored him to put the screws in the homemade coffin lid, the lid came loose.

Into the narrow grave (thank goodness it was narrow as this prevented the whole thing from opening completely) jumped son John Patrick and grandsons Justin and Gabe.  As we watched, they managed to right the box and climb out.  Dusting off, we paused a moment then continued with a closing prayer…with grand daughter Jenny calling out, “This gives new meaning to rolling over in the grave!”

While I am sure there were those who were shocked and perhaps offended, we family members quickly embraced the humor and drama with which Lenore took her final bow.  On to the reception, where loving stories and photos were shared (new stories created, new photos taken) and so the afternoon bled into the night.

The gathered cousins, oldest to youngest…all but two.  We missed you Jared and Sophia.

From bottom, oldest to youngest:  Rivanna with daughters Sol and Zayah, Megan Lenore, Nessa with son Gabe and daughter Alma, Justin, Robertino, Gabriel, Sarah, Jenny, Kate, Bekah, Zach, and John.

Me and Lenore.  Sweet.

While entering the hospital yesterday to fetch my recovering mother home, I received an urgent text message from my brother-in-law, John.  Rushing out to call him, he told me that my beloved Lenore had died in the night.  After packing to come here with thoughts that my mother was dying, after seeing her through surgery with hopes of full recovery, my seemingly healthy but aged mother-in-law dies.  Below are some initial thoughts on Lenore:

I met Lenore when I was, as she frequently said, “a sweet, darling girl of fourteen”.  She was the mother of Mike, a friend from school and someone who was at the center of the social group I was circling.  ”Fascinating” really did describe this woman—I’d never met someone like her.  She exuded a crazy zest for life and took such personal interest in each person she met that one felt incredibly special in her presence.  We talked for hours during my high school years and I poured out my thoughts to her even as I poured out my heart to first one son and then another—I even tested the water with a cousin along the way.

Marrying Mike put the finishing touch on my already sealed membership into Lenore’s family—from the very beginning I called her my “Mother-in-Love”, rejecting the harsh undertones of the term mother-in-law.  I have often told my children that this family could give way to a terrific page turner of a book.  The only thing I’d have to do is change the names to protect the guilty!  And the core, for me at least, would be Lenore.

Lenore’s dialogue was never to be trusted when fact-checked, but for color and imagination her stories got high marks.  One of the best things about my friendship with her was our laughter.  I could blatantly tease her about her “selective memory” of events and we would end up roaring with laughter, sometimes to the point of tears.

She was quite the hostess and I learned much from observing her graciously open her home to international students, university staff and students, farm folk from tiny Cobden, and relations from all over the world.  They were all welcome in Lenore’s realm—for in truth she was queen of the household (chickens, cows and dogs included) whether the title was acknowledged by her oft unruly sons or not.  Her husband adored her, as did family and friends.

Over the past year or so, Lenore and I have talked often on the phone.  Her memory was going and she would repeat herself, asking me “WHEN are you coming to see me?!?”, several times in a conversation.  It broke my heart a bit each time, but I’d tell her how much I would love to be there and she would tell me how much she loved me…and how she recalled first meeting me when I was “a sweet, darling girl of fourteen”.

Oh, my dearest Mother-in-Love, I will miss you so.  You have brought love and life to our lives and what better gift is there than that?