Ripe Tomatoes and Blackberry Jelly?

Today held great promise when I jumped out of bed around 5 am. I waited for daylight, so that I could work in my garden and get some things done outside. When it was light enough to get a move on, I sprang into action with my loppers and basket to work on my blackberry bushes. They’re spent for the season, but still working hard to produce a few last plump and ripe berries. 

The western sky bore a dark backdrop with the sunrise in the front creating a really cool looking sky. I went to work fast cutting old branches to make way for next year’s foliage. The raindrops were slow at first but came on quick. And I hastily retreated inside. 

My middle son was headed out the door to work while I was looking out front eyeing some ripe tomatoes I’d planned to pick. On impulse, I grabbed his vintage umbrella and a basket and followed him out the door. By then it was pouring, but he snapped a pic of me standing in the rain from his car and I stepped over my fence and into the garden. I managed to snip about a dozen tomatoes filling my basket and was so glad the ac was off in the house and I came back inside to a room full of warm air. 

Of course I needed to scramble some eggs and cut up a fresh tomato slice for breakfast. And showing my age, I posted a couple of pictures on Facebook. Which is the reason for my blog today.

I started thinking about my Mary Poppins-ish posts of every day ordinary life and how I feel compelled to share just how extraordinary it all is. It occurred to me I might be presenting some kind of life that seems too idyllic. And am I really suggesting that there isn’t anything that can’t be solved by ripe tomatoes or blackberry jelly? I’m not a Facebook Fantasy post kind of girl. So I need to set the record straight.

My life is anything but perfect. I’m kinda over the whole death and dying chapters of late (having lost a brother last year and my mom last month). I get that for everything there is a season. I’m just ready for some of the more favorable headwinds and calmer weather. 

I make sugar cookies out of shit balls (an observation made by someone later in my life). It’s true. I’ve spent my life coloring things with more brightness and warmth than what was actually transpiring. And as with everything, I think it requires balance lest we don a pair of rose colored glasses that permanently cast shade on reality. Balance for everything in life. Good and bad, light and dark…even life and death.

That’s a more challenging task when reality feels like being in a batting cage and the auto loader is lobbing said shit balls at 90 mph in 5 second intervals. 

I wake up anxious most days. I feel lost at times. If I believed there was a “normal” for anyone, I’d be looking for what my new one looked like. 

It’d be easy to give in and fall into a rabbit hole, lost with inner turmoil and no direction. I won’t. I refocus every day. 

I look around at my beautiful life and instead of looking at what’s missing, I am just so fucking thankful for everyone who shows up every day…not just the humans. My cats, my dog. My blackberry bushes that when I take a picture just right, there is a quintessential rural barn in the distance.  It’s not mine. Not sure there’s anything in this life we really own save our own self and identity. And arguably, we sometimes perform like shape shifters and chameleons mirroring people and settings we move in and out of. I find myself with less patience or inclination to change colors for anyone or anything these days. Showing my age...again.

I borrow that image of the barn for my picture (can you see it?). It instantly brings to mind a moment in July when the berries are ripe, the sky is a stunning blue and the sun is so brilliantly shining I have to shield my eyes to take it all in. The heat of the sun sinks into my skin so deep and heavy I can feel it all the way down to my soul and it makes my heart sing like no other experience can. In that moment, my imperfect life is miles away. And like that Tibetan saying goes, I am taking care of my minutes because I know the years will take care of themselves. 

I like to play the part of the Wizard sometimes. I'm behind the curtain pulling a few strings or rather transforming a few shit balls again. If you see my magical tunnel filled with dangling gourds, mini pumpkins, and tomatoes, delicately hung like ornaments on a Christmas tree, the reality is actually two cattle panels and a few T posts held together by some heavy duty zip ties. Hell, that describes my life most of the time! I'm what you'd call unskilled labor and yes, a late bloomer of sorts (that keeps blooming I hope). I try...fail...try again...and learn. I'm more than happy to admit ignorance if someone else has a better idea or can teach me something I don't already know (especially if it adds sparkle and more magic to my already purpose filled life).

The plants I’ve been gifted or started as cuttings have been transplanted countless times because they keep outgrowing their pots. I have returning “volunteer” squash covering my backyard that I am turning into a sort of living art scene with big cushaw squash growing up on my deck boards and around my table and railings. 

I find that when big life things happen, it cracks you wide open. Sometimes you wallow, sometimes you throw yourself into something new…and sometimes you admit that despite your best efforts, you are still not okay and sit with that for a minute. I’m better because I let myself be not okay. I ask for help if I need it. I know this is a sliver of time when my defenses are down. I’m more vulnerable on the outside than what is my comfort zone. I’m sharing today in a gush of emotions because it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to. 

I love the idea that like plants, we can keep growing so long as we don’t restrict growth in pots that become too small for our roots to expand. We’ve got the whole fucking universe to work with here…any constraints you find yourself bound in are self-inflicted and easily remedied. 

So coming back to where I started…do ripe tomatoes and blackberry jelly fix everything? No, but they will fill your belly and feed your soul. And they're an excellent start. Happy gardening in life or whatever interest makes your heart sing!

#Facebookfantasydebunked #thisisliving

I Owe You

My mom passed last week after a long struggle with dementia. A few people asked that I post this online. I’m not sure how much it will resonate because it is so specific to my relationship with my mom, but sharing in case helpful to anyone else: I’ve been going through mom’s pictures this week. You can see them around the room here. I think maybe I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did. For as much as she confided in me and shared secrets no one else knew, all these pictures tell a much bigger story than just my part as her daughter. 

She raised kids over the span of four decades. I have memories of mom when we were all a family and lived together…mom and dad and my three brothers at the time. Mom and Dad used to take us to Madison Bowl and we would be turned loose to play in the arcades and throw mostly gutter balls when it was our turn. We didn’t have a lot of traditions, but bowling was one I remember. And of course, weekend trips to the farm to pretend we weren’t city kids and fish and run and play in the creek beds. 

There were no timeouts for bad behavior. If we stepped out of line, mom could effortlessly take a drag from a cigarette with one hand and smack the back of our head with the other and never miss a beat. With those same two hands, she wrangled four kids in crowded stores, piled us into a station wagon, and anywhere else the Niehaus clan had to be. Mom chose to be a Niehaus for fifteen years. Later in life, she often talked about wishing she had finished her lifetime with a single marriage. She even thought of herself as a widow when our dad passed in 1995. And you better believe we laughed about that. I’m not rewriting history now, but I’m just sentimental enough to want to remember her dream even if it was a complete departure from reality. 

Mom was always an extrovert. She loved to be the center of attention. I think that might run in the family, but I’m not going to mention any names. She loved dressing up and long before there was something called a “selfie,” she was striking poses for random pics every chance she got. I was kind of an awkward teen and the contrast between my Harper Valley PTA, tight jeans and big boobed momma and me as a flat chested bean pole was comical. She was a tough act to follow. And even though at the time I was mortified when she would march into junior high for an open house in her cowboy boots and platinum blonde hair, I can see now that she was just living life and enjoying her youth. I remember the guys in my class hanging out the window whistling at her. Just as clearly as I can see that smile on her face looking up briefly in acknowledgement because we all want to feel beautiful and appreciated. And we sometimes see that self-worth and where that beauty is derived from differently when we’re still growing into the person we want to be. 

We didn’t have a typical mother daughter relationship. Does anyone? We didn’t have a parent child relationship either. Especially after mom and dad divorced. We moved around a few times and I became her best friend and trusted confidant. There are things she told me that I wish I could forget and there were things that changed my life forever in knowing. My sister, Cindy, was probably the biggest and best secret she told me about when I was 12 years old. And then again, finding out that I was going to be a big sister as a sophomore in high school. At 15, I witnessed the birth of my brother, Mike. 

When mom went into labor with him, it was the first time I’d ever been around someone giving birth. We have this nervous laughter thing in our family. When something is uncomfortable, if something hurts or someone is hurting, or when we simply refuse to feel anything, we freaking laugh until we cry. Big belly laughs that leave our sides cramping and tears running down our faces. Nothing calls for that kind of laughter like seeing your mom’s vajaja sprawled out in stirrups, with your future baby brother’s redhead pushing out! 

Mom never was someone who cried very much. So when she had these waves of emotion every two minutes, I didn’t know what to do. One minute she’s apologizing for yelling and then the next she would break back out with, “Nurse! Nurse!” There really was only one choice for me. I laughed hysterically on and off until he was born hours later. Especially when I had to help with her bedpan. I was trying to walk it into the bathroom to empty it, but I was shaking and nervous. And it ended up all over the wall instead of flushed down the toilet. Mom and me laughed about this for years. All I’d have to do is say, “Nurse…Nurse” and we’d immediately start laughing. 

While I was working on finding the perfect dress for mom this week, I thought about the time she thought she was dying when I was in middle school…I can’t remember what the health scare was that time, but she told me it was imminent. Over a grilled cheese sandwich and soup at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s, we began planning her funeral. It really was a WTF moment…one of many. We spent the next couple of hours walking around the dime store, picking out gawdy earrings and hats for her funeral. And we laughed until we cried again and again. Just so you know. I went against my mother’s wishes and decided to forego the red boa she requested back then. 

 We don’t have time to swap all the stories that cover an entire lifetime. So it is without malintent if I’ve missed or slighted anyone. Mom really was one of a kind. And love her or hate her, if she was your mom, you still loved her.

She could do anything with a pair of sunglasses, a pack of cigarettes, and a head full of curlers tucked under a scarf. Whether it was lottery tickets, yard sales, or a Lucy-like scheme, she went all in every time. There was a running joke when she’d start in on her latest get rich scheme. I’d be like “Lucy…you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.” It was dysfunctional as all get out. But somehow it was exactly as it was supposed to be. I wouldn’t be who I am today if she hadn’t been who she was raising me. 

A lot of people don’t know I almost didn’t graduate high school let alone college. We moved four times in five years, changing schools four times. My junior year, I started Simon Kenton when we moved back to the farm…again. I decided one morning I was done trying. I did not share my mom’s outgoing extroverted personality. When it was time to get ready for school and get on the bus, I stayed in bed. I expected no resistance when I told her I was quitting school. I was mistaken because the next thing I knew, the mattress was upside down and I was in it. She told me I was not quitting school and that her kid was going to graduate high school. She morphed into a drill sergeant and yelled at me for twenty minutes straight. An hour later, with little Mikey on her hip, she drove m to school and waited to make sure I went inside. I can’t say where I’d be today if not for that single act of bad ass-ness on her part that day.

As far as Mom’s timing went, it wasn’t the best even on a good day. The best laid plans always seemed to go a little haywire for her. I finished my degree in Journalism in 1997. I skipped the walk and ceremony…and my mom gave me a card and an “I Owe You” for a gift. Insert hysterical laughter here. I had more than one legitimately written piece of paper that said “I owe you.” 

Months later, I was out at the farm and she had a surprise waiting. I sat down at the kitchen table and she showered me with graduation confetti over my head. Then she handed me a black jewelry case with a pearl necklace and matching earrings. I’m wearing them today and I know what it cost my mom to get them. She’d put them in layaway and paid on them once a week for months. Mom lived for immediate gratification and rarely waited on anything. So I know just how much determination it took for her to wait. She was so happy to bestow them upon me with great ceremony. And the sentiment held more meaning than a walk in cap and gown ever could.

Fast forward to 13 grandchildren, 3 great grandchildren and another on the way and new generations who changed her name from Mom to Grandma and Me Maw. Mom loved babies. Not to say she didn’t love and appreciate her grandchildren as they got older, but like kittens and puppies, babies were her favorites. She might not have been the grandma that showed up all the time and you might have even felt disappointed at times. One thing was for certain. When she did show up, the crowd parted and there was only one Wanda Jo Grandma. Her all in personality kicked in and she filled the room.

I think Christmases may be one of my favorite memories when it comes to family and mom. She was never well off financially, but she loved gift giving at Christmastime. She used to shop her favorite thrift stores and yard sales to buy dozens of gifts for all of us. It made her heart sing. Full stop. I loved that about her. So I feel comfortable laughing too about this annual tradition. There was always at least one or two gems in the gifts I received. And I’d never hurt her feelings and tell her a lot was recycled back to Goodwill. The kids loved having tons of presents to open and again, she always managed to find at least one thing that the kids grabbed onto and loved. Forget that a beautiful musical porcelain figure had the arm missing off of it or you got a girl’s shirt and you were a little boy. Every gift was a treasure…not the ones you save and put away as a family heirloom. But a memory of someone that loved you and spent likely money she didn’t have to give you something you wouldn’t need. And in some cases something that was once yours. One year, she gave the boys’ dad a shirt and tie that he’d gotten rid of and I’d given her for her yard sale. Now that was priceless. I can appreciate that now.

I’m the basket lady and I don’t know if my goodies are all well received. But you all accept them, and if my last batch of jelly was like tar because I overcooked it, no one ever complains because it’s coming from a place of love. Seriously, was the jelly okay last year?

When mom found out she had dementia, it used to drive me nuts when she’d say, “I have dementia.” I was like, “mom, how would you know?” You have to remember that she had been telling me she was dying since I was 12 years old. Trust, but verify man. The humor left me there, though, because this disease was in fact legitimate. And I watched it steal memories from my mom until it ripped away even her very faith.

In her final months, I would pray with and for her. I’m not particularly religious, but I consider myself deeply spiritual and believe that a person’s faith is an incredibly powerful tool for overcoming even the toughest situations in life. It bothered me that the one thing in this life she relied on was stripped away from her. So I picked back up on things she’d said to me growing up. And would pray out loud with her calling upon God to keep his promise to her and bring her comfort and peace to ease the anxiety and fear that she struggled with every waking moment. I reminded her that even though her memory had failed her that her spirit remembered and that she was not forgotten.

She became a child again, with renewed innocence. It was hard to lose the person she had been, but it gave me a chance to love her without the encumbrance of a challenging mother daughter relationship. She was a very sweet little girl and it didn’t take much to bring her joy in her final days. I picked flowers from my garden and took them to her in mason jar vases. I’d do her hair every week and she’d tell me how she wanted it. And at the end of our visit, I’d take a picture with my phone of the back of her hair so she could see. And every time, she’d smile and look surprised. She’d say it looked beautiful and couldn’t believe it was hers. 

Mom’s hair was a thing for her. She always loved it and I think the old school term used by those of us over 50 was that it was her crowning glory. There’s a poster in the room. I had prints made of some of the styles on the days when we shared a role reversal as mother and daughter. One I would add that was a choice I made in the end versus the one made for me years ago. 

Today what I’ve shared comes from a place of love too. And mom, I don’t have any of the hand scribbled “I Owe Yous” because those debts were forgiven long ago. But here’s mine for you…I owe you for the woman I am today.