It has been a little over a year since Dad died. I don’t think I am going to live to be 101 like he did. I remember watching him climb in and out of the back of the big International Travelall that he and Mom had driven out to the west coast when they were in their 70's. I was amazed at how limber and strong he was. In his 80's he was digging ditches for a watering system in my front yard and building a brick planter box that was half the length of the front of my house.
Yesterday I tried out my “What would Dad do?” mantra. It did make me think before acting. I was going to get a bagel for breakfast but Dad never had bagels. He would have had a bowl of oatmeal with some fruit and a hamburger patty. He had learned that it was a breakfast that kept his blood sugar steady and he followed that plan religiously. I went home and reluctantly dragged the oatmeal out of the cupboard. Before I could cook it a friend called and we went out for breakfast so I didn’t actually act on “What would Dad do?” However, the mental process of asking the question made me stop and think. I was actually ready to take a different action.
I’m not giving up on the idea and I plan to incorporate it into my decision making process. I still need a more specific action plan about what I am going to do to feel stronger and healthier in the New Year, but my bottom line will be “What would Dad do?” Today I plan to have oatmeal for breakfast, start reading a new book I got for Christmas, take a walk, and have a cup of tea instead of those leftover Christmas cookies. That’s what Dad would have done.
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![]() I originally wrote this on the anniversary of my Mom’s birthday. She would have been 102 in 2015. I edited and updated it in 2021 in honor of Mother’s Day. I used to dread going card shopping for my Mom. She was a hard person to please and there was always the possibility that she would reject any gift or card I got for her. I now realize that the job of choosing a card paled in comparison to the job she faced being a Mom. None of those sentimental poetic cards really fit our relationship. As I got older I would look for a card that simply said “I love you” because that said what I really meant. I loved my Mom. I am so grateful that I had an opportunity in my adult life to know and understand her as a human being and not just as a Mom. She was a very unique person. ![]() She could actually be very funny, although we didn’t often see that side of her. This morning I started thinking about the stories she used to tell that made me laugh. The very best one was about Lifebuoy soap. I can’t even imagine my Mom doing this, but evidently when she was a young woman, she got a job handing out soap samples door to door. She had a brief memorized pitch to say when she handed over the sample. In the spiel was the line “Men and women everywhere use Lifebuoy.” Unfortunately when she tried to deliver her speech she got so nervous that she mixed up the phrase and said “Men and women use Lifebuoy everywhere.” This still makes me laugh out loud. No matter how many times she told us this story we were practically rolling on the floor imagining exactly where those men and women were using Lifebuoy. If I bought a card for my Mom today it would be a “Thank You” card. I would thank her for always encouraging me to do well in school and to go to college. I would thank her for passing on her love of sewing and doing crafty things. I still look at pinecones, milkweed pods, and cattails when I am out in nature and I’m tempted to drag them home and make some kind of “arrangement” out of them like my Mom used to do. I would thank her for nursing me when I was sick by putting Vicks Vapo Rub on my chest. I would thank her for all the adorable dresses she made for me and my twin sister that matched exactly so that we wouldn’t fight over who would wear what. I would especially thank her just for surviving raising twin babies and a five-year-old at the same time. That alone took unbelievable strength and determination. So today I feel very grateful I had the Mom I had. Happy Birthday and Happy Mother’s Day Mom! I love you. One of Mom’s other stories was about her pet chicken. In the good old days it was not uncommon for people in her neighborhood to have chickens. I think Mom’s family sold some of the eggs. They got the chickens as little chicks and Mom picked one out as her favorite. She thought it was a rooster so she named it Billy. Billy evidently greeted Mom when she came home from school and followed her around like a dog. One day Billy surprised everyone by laying an egg. Billy was a girl! She was so attached to Billy that she never could eat chicken.
Many of her stories were about her own Mom. Although my grandfather was serious and stern, my grandmother was remembered by both of my parents as a wonderfully sympathetic and loving person. I wish I had had an opportunity to meet her but unfortunately she died a year before my sister and I were born. My Mom told us that her mother loved playing the guitar and whistling, something my grandfather considered very unladylike. Mom also told us that her mother would tell her father that she was taking the kids to church and instead she took them to the movies. I imagine my grandmother as a dutiful wife with the spark of a rebel inside. I hope I have a little of my grandma in me. I know I have a lot of my mother in me. I’m trying to accept the fact that I look a lot like her, even though I vowed as a kid that would never happen. I am learning to love myself as I am and to love my Mom just as she was. When I was a child I learned about heaven and hell, but mostly heaven. In the Lutheran church there was not a lot of fire and brimstone. I learned that God is loving and accepting and we will all get together in heaven after we die. This really stuck with me. I have been thinking about what Dad has been doing since he died. The fact that I want to write about this implies that I believe in life after death. The truth is sometimes I’m not sure what I believe. I know what I hope. It is almost a year since my Dad died. I’m feeling sad and coming face to face with what “Life after Death” means to me. ![]() I hope my Dad went to heaven and was greeted by my Mom, my sister, and his parents, siblings, and friends. His death happened one month after his 101st birthday and just days before my Mom’s 101st birthday so I hope they had a big party with balloons and cake. I hope it was a cake big enough so that they could divide the top in half and put 101 candles on each side just like they used to do for my twin sister and I when we had our birthday parties. I suspect you can do things like that in heaven without being afraid of burning the place down. I hope over this last year he has had lots of time to reminisce with everyone. He was quite the story teller so I think heaven for him would be having lots of time to tell his stories and lots of people to listen. I also know heaven for him would be a chance to talk to his father. One of the few times I ever saw him cry was when we were watching a video of “Field of Dreams.” When Kevin Costner’s character was given a chance to meet his father on the baseball field and actually talk to him, tears were streaming down my Dad’s face. I can see him in heaven, sitting on a rock by a river talking to his father, just as he was in a favorite photo I have of them. ![]() I sometimes wonder what people look like in heaven. I imagine my parents looking the way they do in my dreams, middle aged like they were when we were kids. I wonder how they saw themselves in their own dreams, probably younger than I remember them. Do you go back to a more youthful you in heaven like the people in my dreams? Is everyone reincarnated as their best self? What is our best self anyway? I’d like to go back to my 18-year-old body in heaven but with all of my little old lady experiences and knowledge still intact. When I think about it, we probably don’t even have bodies in heaven. It’s more likely all about our spirits and everyone is just kind of glowing and ethereal. ![]() I DO believe that some part of us, perhaps that glowing and ethereal part, survives after death. I went to a Hospice counselor after Dad died. I told her about several people who had experienced contact with Dad after his death. Even though it didn’t happen to me, I truly believe that these experiences were real. My counselor told me she had had a similar experience and that it was not unusual for this to happen. She also told me that Dad was literally alive in me because I am like him in so many ways. I have his patience and his ability to look at things from many perspectives in order to solve problems. I feel his presence in the way I look at life, quiet and thoughtful, steady and strong. Dad had a jest for life. He never stopped looking for ways to enjoy the time he had on this planet and he often said he would love to do it all again. Sometimes I get caught up in the sadness of losing him and forget to enjoy the life I have. I think that's when I need to conjure up the image I have of him in heaven, surrounded by the people he loved, all glowing and ethereal, looking down on me and encouraging me to embrace life here on earth the way that he did. ![]() September is my Dad’s birthday month. He would have been 102. In his honor I offer some of his memorable sayings, many of which are rooted in the language of the Midwest in general, and Minnesota in Particular. “My get up and go got up and went.” Dad probably said this everyday, particularly as he got older. Now I really get it. I feel this way a lot. Actually, this perfectly describes my energy level today. Along with this phrase came his description of his lack of mobility. He had “two speeds, slow and stopped.” At every doctor’s appointment or meeting with a new caregiver, or even to grocery clerks, Dad would gravely announce “I have TMB.” While the doctor or caregiver or whoever was contemplating what kind of rare disease or mental condition Dad had, he would point out that it stood for “Too Many Birthdays.” Then he would chuckle at his own joke. It used to drive me nuts because he said it so often, now I wish he still had TMB. “Don’t get your pants in a bundle” is a Midwestern version of the British “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch.” I often hear my inner Dad voice saying this to me when I start worrying too much. ![]() Dad had a number of phrases he used to describe people who were mentally off the mark. Coming from Minnesota, the land of 10,000 lakes, one of his favorites was “He doesn’t have all his oars in the water.” As a carpenter he also used a lot of handyman references. “Not the sharpest tool in the shed,” “Not the brightest bulb in the box,” or “She has a screw loose” were part of his repertoire. My sister, who I guess was always in a hurry to do something, remembers him admonishing us to “Hold ‘er Knute!” This was used not only to slow us down, but also as a warning to hold on for just a minute before pursuing some unwise action, like putting a fork in an electric outlet. If you slowed down too much you were “Slow as molasses in January.” Much has been written about the extremely subdued nature of people from Minnesota who live by the Scandinavian code of not being overly emotional. This characteristic is covered quite thoroughly in the book “How to Talk Minnesotan.” I had tears rolling down my face the first time I read this book because it was so Dad. On a scale from really fabulous to horifically bad, the common responses for a Minnesotan are "pretty good," "not too bad," "not too good," and pretty bad." Here are some examples: Me: “I got all A’s on my report card.” Dad: “ That’s pretty good.” Me: “ What do you think of this wedding gown I sewed myself? “ Dad: “Not too bad.” As Dad would say, "If I had my druthers” I would have liked to hear a more effusive reply, but we understood that these phrases were high praise and represented the range of the emotions he was able to express. I used to say that his emotions ran from “A” to “C.” This ability to channel wild emotions worked “pretty good” in negative situations to create a feeling of calm and order. Dad was stoic and calm in emergencies. Me: ( While we were out on a picnic and Dad was building a fire) “You just missed that log and hit yourself in the shin with your hatchet!” Dad: “ It’s not too good. You kids get in the car and I will drive us all to the hospital emergency room.” Me: “There is a tornado headed this way!” Dad: “That’s pretty bad. Let’s all go into the North East corner of the basement.” Dad kept his cool at all times and, except for occasionally using "Damn," he did not swear. He considered it a sign that you were hiding the fact that you had a limited vocabulary. I remember him telling us that the guys at the Steel Plant where he worked were amazed that he could chew someone out without using a single four letter word. I am so happy to have these snippets of Dad in my memory bank. This will be a sad September without him, but when I start feeling down I know I will hear his voice reminding me not to get my pants in a bundle.
One of his sweaters was not acrylic. He made a very nice sweater in a beautiful brown wool. Unfortunately it’s a sweater VEST. Who actually wears sweater vests anymore, unless they are trying to channel that homey "Father Knows Best" image from the '50's?
Ever since I saw the modern, minimally decorated homes on a home tour I went to with a friend, I have been wanting to minimalize my own home. I have way too much stuff, including things that I saved from Dad's apartment. I have been putting off cleaning and organizing but I know I can't hang on to these things forever. Eventually someone is going to have to go through my things just like I went through Dad's. I don't want to burden someone else with making decisions that I have put off making about what is important to save and what can be given away. It will be bad enough for someone to go through MY clothes and try to find someone who might want a "little old lady with cats" wardrobe. I loved my Dad. I loved the fact that he was so willing to try anything, including knitting. I love his "Ugly Sweaters." Although they are a wonderful reminder of him, I don't need to keep them in order to hang on to my memories of him. I wish I could find a good home for them, but even If I can't, I know I need to keep the pictures of them and give the sweaters away I've spent the last few weeks buying and planting vegetables. There is something about planting that fills my soul. ![]() Gardening was something my Dad and I did together. It seems strange not to have him around this year to give me advice. I miss talking to him about what he wanted to plant in his garden and sharing what I wanted to put in my own. The apartment where he lived installed raised beds so the tenants could have their own little gardens. Dad could take his electric scooter out to the garden and drive right up next to the bed where he could weed and plant while still sitting on his scooter. ![]() I learned everything I know about gardening from my Dad. He taught me to rotate the location and variety of plants to discourage those annoying garden bugs and diseases. He gave me his "Square Foot Garden" book and I learned how to pack a lot of garden in a small space. He showed me how to "amend" the soil with steer manure, which not only feeds the plants, it also gives your garden that nice earthy "farm" smell when you dig it in. He was very good about prepping thoroughly before planting. He used to say "You don't put a $10 plant in a $5 hole." I miss him and I miss doing this together. My housemate is totally clueless about plants and gardening, but he has willingly taken over most of the yard work. He does such a good job that I don't have to do the hard stuff. He preps everything and I just stand around and point out where I want things planted. I used to spend a lot of time down on my knees rooting out weeds but it was getting harder and harder to get back up once I got down. Now he does all of that. Once he learned the difference between a plant and a weed there were no weeds that could escape his eagle eye. He can spot Oxalis a mile away. My yard looks like something out of Sunset magazine. I think he really likes doing gardening more than he thought he would. He prepped the veggie beds already and now I'm planting them. I'm glad I don't have to haul heavy bags of manure by myself, but I feel a little guilty that I had my housemate do the hard part and I get to do the fun part of planting. ![]() I love planting. I like figuring out exactly where to put the new little plants. This year I'm planting mostly starts instead of seeds. They look so little and fragile at first, and then every day you go out and they are a bit bigger and stronger. It's like a speeded up version of watching kids grow. I've never had kids so these plants are kind of my babies. Of course eventually I'll eat them which is something you don't do with kids unless you're the wicked witch of the west. I like digging the holes and mixing in a little root food and then carefully popping the new plants out of their containers and sliding them into the hole trying not to disturb their tiny roots. I like filling in the dirt around the plant and patting the soil around them so they are secure in their new homes. I like the feel of the dirt in my fingers even when it gets stuck in my nails. I like being out in the sun and working up a mini sweat. It makes me feel like I am doing something good and it makes me feel close to my Dad. Today I feel sad and lonely. In past years I would have spent this day with my Dad. I should have planned something to do with a friend, but I didn’t. It’s just me and my cats. I have many things I could or should be doing but today I would rather be a cat and spend the day curled up in a furry ball. In my fantasy life as a cat, I start off my day with a breakfast that someone else has prepared for me. It’s nice to be waited on. After a visit to the bathroom, I go outside to make sure no strangers have invaded my territory. The neighbor’s dog dug under the fence again yesterday afternoon and had the audacity to come right into the house through the open back door. I defended my territory and chased her away, but it was scary. My fur is still ruffled. The fence looks secure now but I will need to keep my eye on that rascal next door. I do a bit of exploring, keeping mindful of anything that moves. It appears there are no other cats. I mark my territory. It’s fast and easy because I have the ability to pee backwards. Then I hunker down on the front porch until someone nice lets me in. This is one of the disadvantages of being a cat but I usually don’t have to wait long. If I’ve eaten grass, which I often do, I barf it up on the door mat. “ No problemo,” someone else will clean it up. ![]() In my cat life it’s always a sunny day. I love sun. I gravitate to it like a magnet. I find my favorite chair with my special blanky and make a nest by walking in a circle. I like this ritual. It’s very comforting. The sun warms my back and I settle into one of my many daily naps. I dream I am gracefully running through a field of golden grass. I can leap with ease and I don’t have a care in the world. I embrace all the smells and sounds of nature. Life is good. Later in the day after more napping and a snack I look for a warm lap to curl up in. I greet the lap person with my most endearing chirpy sound and slit-like eyes which usually ensures Iap time. While I do nothing more than look adorable, I get my whole body gently stroked. I’m in heaven. I would like nothing more than to disappear into my cat life fantasy today. But I am not a cat, so I will make myself a special breakfast with eggs and some Aebleskiver (Danish pancakes). On this gray and cloudy day I will get out and walk. Even if I can’t leap gracefully through the tall grass, I can embrace all the smells and sounds of nature. I will do some of the things on my “to do” list and I might take a nap. Life is good. Dad died in October (2014). He was 101. Ever since his death I have been hoping to have a dream where we could just talk. Mom would be there too, but having spent the last eight years with God she would have acquired “the peace that passes all understanding” and be uncharacteristically smiling supportively in the background. We did talk when Dad was alive. He was as sharp as a tack and remembered his long life in amazing detail. He loved to tell stories, but it was rare for him to give advice and that is what I would like now. How do I navigate this new life, free from the responsibilities of caring for someone else? I feel a little guilty about admitting that I do have a sense of relief along with deep sadness that he is gone. It’s hard to sort out all these feelings. “Don’t get your pants in a bundle” Dad would say in my dream, if I had one, indicating his usual approach to life which was to not spend a lot of time worrying and wondering and just face each new challenge as it came. I would ask him how he was doing. “Pretty Good” he would reply, or “Not too bad.” Being from Minnesota, Dad sounded like a walking example of someone from the book “How to Talk Minnesotan.” Nothing was ever expressed effusively. Emotions, both good and bad, were always kept in check. In my dream, he would probably casually mention seeing God in the same way he used to talk about meeting Hubert Humphrey, and be proud that they both called him “Howard.” I would be afraid to tell him I was a little bit miffed that he had communicated with at least three people that I know of after he died, but not with me. Why didn’t I feel his touch on my arm like the custodian who cleaned his apartment, or see him in his plaid shirt like the total stranger who told me Dad said he could “help me more where he is now” than he could have when he was still alive and needing a lot of care? No, I wouldn't say anything about those mind boggling and confusing encounters. I would be happy just to be able to talk to him and I wouldn’t want to spoil it by being too emotional. ![]() After some random conversation I would look at Dad and Mom and we would all know that I was dreaming but it would seem so real. I would ask if I could touch them, even though it was a dream, and they would say yes. I wouldn’t give them a big bear hug. That would not be respectful Scandinavian behavior. I would gently take Mom’s hands in mine and kiss her on the forehead. And then I would slide my arm around Dad’s shoulders and plant a kiss on the top of his bald head. |
Leslie Masona woman in search of her post-retirement future Guess what! By subscribing, you get notices about the latest Little Old Lady with Cats posts sent to your mailbox!
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