WordSisters

Category: loss

  • Naked Soffits

    I have a collection of teapots, accumulated over more than 40 years, that I love and that have always given me joy. The earliest in the collection is a Japanese tea set I bought while I was in college. I loved the way I could cradle the thick handless cups in my palms, “too hot to touch, too hot to drink.” The set travelled with me from Grand Rapids to New Orleans, to Minnesota, back to Michigan. The super-glued lid, cracked during one of its many moves, is now part of its charm, a repaired flaw that doesn’t detract from its beauty.

    My most prized possession in the collection is a Japanese “Brown Betty” that belonged to my mother. Well-loved and often used, it sat on our kitchen counter for years. Before sitting down to dinner every night, my mother would put two Lipton tea bags in the pot and fill it with boiling water from the kettle she had on the stove as she cooked. The tea would steep as the seven of us ate our baked chicken and biscuits, or fresh-caught salmon fried to perfection, or meatless Friday meals of macaroni and cheese or potato soup. As she cleared our plates, mom would pour a cup for her and my dad and we’d sit and talk as they sipped their tea, often long after the meal was finished.

    I don’t remember when I acquired this treasure. Probably after dad died and mom sold our family home, auctioning off all the memories that wouldn’t fit into her one-bedroom apartment at the Senior Estates.

    As often happens when you have a collection, mine grew over the years, added to by pieces I bought myself and by gifts from family and friends. I displayed these treasures on my kitchen soffits, the empty space between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling. I changed the displays by season, swapping out Brown Betty with a bright red Waechtersbach teapot and snowmen sets at Christmas time, adding pops of yellow in the spring. The three or four times I changed the décor every year were always satisfying, even as it got more difficult for me to climb on top of the kitchen counters to reach the void below the ceiling.

    When we sold our four-bedroom house in Minnesota and moved to a townhome in Michigan, some of my collection went to Goodwill or were gifted to family or friends. My new compact kitchen has fewer cabinets, but the vaulted ceiling in our great room provides a spacious backdrop for the most treasured of my collection that remains. My teapots once again held a place of honor in my home.

    This fall, I took a day to climb the heights and change out the decorations, adding pumpkins and sunflowers and other tchotchkes to complement the featured teapots. For the first time in years, however, I didn’t decorate for Christmas because we spent our first winter in the desert Southwest, a much-needed respite from the ice and snow. When I came back for a visit in February, I took down all the fall décor, leaving a few random pieces that looked lonely and sad, but that I planned to add to when we returned in the spring.

    As is often the case at this phase of our lives, our return wasn’t quite as planned. My mother was dying, so I rushed home to be with my siblings for her final days. The next month was a flurry of activity: hospice workers, many laughs and tears with my four siblings, a funeral, cleaning out my mom’s assisted living apartment, poring through hundreds of pictures and memorabilia, finding my footing as a 67-year-old motherless child.

    A month later, when the day came to finally fill the empty spaces above my kitchen cabinets, I found I no longer had it in me. I’m relatively healthy, but, like my mother, I have some balance issues that make it seem imprudent to climb a ladder and teeter on a kitchen counter to reach over my head and place porcelain vessels in an arrangement that is pleasing to me but likely not meaningful to anyone else.

    So instead, I dragged the step ladder into the kitchen for perhaps the last time and took everything down. The Brown Betty is now on a shelf next to old pictures of my mom and dad. The rest are carefully wrapped and in a Sterlite tub in my storage room. In each teapot, I placed a note with the details of when I got it and its significance to me.

    My soffits are naked for the first time in my adult life. The look matches the modern architecture of our new home, clean and uncluttered. I know the teapots are there if I should ever change my mind. I also know that my daughter would gladly help me decorate if I asked. For now, however, I’m trying to enjoy the new look and save my physical and mental effort for something else like walking with my husband, creating photo albums, writing. Still, it feels like a loss in a season full of loss.

    While a practical decision, was it premature? Am I unnecessarily adding to my emotional burden while removing a physical one?

    I don’t know. I think I need to let it steep.  

  • Thinking of Mom

    Sun pours in our bedroom, a converted attic. When I make the bed, I pull the sheet and quilt back together and snap them like Mom used to do. They settle into place with a tiny poofing sigh. The golden wood floor is warm as I circle the bed and fluff the pillows.

    Coming in from the car, my sack of groceries is heavy. I shift hands to lock the garage door, shift again to unlock the back door. I ponder dinner possibilities and think of Mom facing this daily challenge. Although she was a good cook, plenty of times she wasn’t inspired either.

    Some nights, I gather up our crumb-laden tablecloth after dinner to shake out on the back step like Mom used to do. Nobody does this anymore. Not tablecloths. Or shaking out crumbs. But I like it. Before dinner I clear the dining room table of clutter and set the table the way she always did—forks, knives, spoons, and napkins. We often put away the spoons unused but it pleases me to do it her way.

    Minutes after we sit down, I hop up to blow my nose and dab my eye. Whenever I start to eat, they run just like hers did. Some neurological blip we share.

    In the evening, my husband reads the news on the sofa and I read in my chair. We comment on the day’s events, share something about our sons and their families or tomorrow’s plans. Ordinary things, but we’re so content and companionable. I think of Mom and Dad doing the same.

    Mom was 67 and already a grandmother to my brother and sister-in-law’s three, when our oldest son was born. When our youngest son was born she was 70. Even though we lived four states apart, we talked often, so she was familiar with our sons’ personalities and milestones. 

    Mom with our oldest

    I think of the way she got down on the floor to play with them. I do the same with my 10-month-old granddaughter, who crawls over me to get a toy or bounces in time to the music I play for her. When a diaper change upsets my 8-week-old granddaughter, I lean in close and say, “It’s OK little one. You’ll be alright,” in a low quiet voice, the same way Mom soothed our youngest.

    Mom with our youngest

    Mom comes to mind often and I wonder how she felt going about her days. At 70, was she achy in the mornings like I often am? Was she happy and looking forward with pleasure to most of her days? Was she carefree? Nah, my life is good but not carefree—hers wouldn’t have been either. 

    How often did the specter of aging shadow her? She had to be aware that one day her health would decline, friends and family would grow ill and die, and she would probably outlive Dad. Could she keep all that in the background? Did she think—like I do—that “I’m still healthy and capable. These are the good years”?

    Mom died 10 years ago on Election Day, the only time I didn’t vote. Instead, I got in the car to begin the long drive to Ohio for her funeral. It wasn’t a presidential election, but I felt bad about missing the vote. Mom and Dad were part of the Greatest Generation. They were fierce believers in democracy. Dad fought and Mom sacrificed during WWII so democracy could thrive throughout the world. Please support democracy with your vote.

  • Work is Work

    This past week I drove a loved family member to cancer radiation treatments, a first for me. One round of appointments was completed which, with agreement of the patient, was celebrated. Staff wearing silly headbands clapped as the patient rang a large bell. Lots of hugs and high fives were exchanged as music chosen by the patient played. Some folks danced. I took pictures for my relative’s wall. 

    Thankfully the media carried Kamala Harris and Tim Walz sharing smiles and high hopes in their political campaign because a lot of people need to see other people enjoying their labors, even twenty seconds of joy. I wouldn’t want their jobs unless something truly despicable was the alternative. I would love to spread some of their positive energy across all whose work is unseen or unknown. Work is work.

    This Labor Day weekend I wish I could embrace every person who works where the emotions and decisions are so immense. For those who hug, shake hands, wear sparkly hair baubles, bring cold water, sit in the quiet of difficult times, may you also find comfort. For people carrying hard news to virtual strangers or closing the doors of valued places, know that emotions projected by the impacted are not personal. It is hard to be on either side of that work.

    For the caregivers, the news bearers, everyone working to keep family alive, building tall buildings, fixing tires, mopping, cooking, gathering eggs whatever honest labor you do, thanks. Even the writers. We’re in this together. Happy Labor Day.