I wasn't able to travel home to Idaho to help my siblings make the annual trek to the cemeteries where our family members are laid to rest. They carried on without me, as they've done most of my adult life, trimming grass and scrubbing bird doo-doo and decorating each one with a bouqet of flowers. Since I couldn't be with them this year, my brain has been listing the graves I would visit if I could, running through the names, leaving bouqets of memories at the bases of their memorials. But if that only happens in my head, I fail to join in remembering those who have joined our heavenside family with my loved ones here, so this is my Memorial Day bouqet of Memories to share with all of you, too.
When I was a little girl, there was a dishwashing liquid called Palmolive, and its commercials were all variations of a manicurist named Madge, who soaked her clients' hands in Palmolive because it was so gentle. Madge was always saying funny things that made us laugh. The line I distinctly remember is, "Call the police! These hands are a crime!"
My mom and I would smooth two hand towels out on the kitchen table, top them each with a bowl of warm green sudsy Palmolive water and Mom's nail kit, and we'd give ourselves a manicure. Is it important that I remember how the corner of my mom's mouth quirked up as she dipped the tips of all ten fingers into the bowl as she quipped, "Call the police!" Maybe not to anyone else, but her laughter as I answered, "These hands are a crime!" is one of the simple memories I have of her that doesn't really mark a time with importance, but sticks with me, because it was real. It happened. And the synapses of my brain stored it away and kept it real . . . kept her real. So, it becomes a bloom.
The next memory is of Mom, Dad, Aunt Mardi, and Cynthia. On one of her first return trips to Idaho after Grandma Vernie died, my Aunt Mardi and and her family showed up at our house with bags and bags of craft supplies. Round baskets, straw, muslin, felt, and mountains of cotton batting filled the kitchen table and overflowed to the floor. Ducks were the new thing, and we were making/stuffing ducks and nesting them each in their own little basket. This was how my mom and her sister grieved--with crafts. I specifically remember sitting next to Cynthia, who had joined us from college, as Aunt Mardi handed us each a long-handled wooden spoon and gave us the job of stuffing the cotton into the necks, all the way to the beaks. It was an important job, or the whole duck just flopped over and refused to sit.
My dad came in from the barnyard and stood quietly, taking in the chaos, as he was apt to do. "Well, Mardi, it looks like you're starting another chicken coop in my kitchen."
Mardi was quick to correct him. "Theron, these are ducks." And my dad looked at the row of sideways creations in front of Cynthia and me and said, "Are you sure? They look like chickens. Boneless chickens."
I don't know if it was the buildup of grief, but all of a sudden, my Aunt Mardi started laughing. Hard. And then the tears came. She said, "I've just spent a hundred dollars and come all the way to a farm to make fake animals, haven't I?" And Cynthia said, "Actually, these are birds, Mom. Faux birds. Maybe boneless chicken decor will be the next new thing." And then the chicken-ducks were airborne, and the cotton batting was airborne, and the straw was airborne, and our kitchen really did look like a chicken coop. It was the best craft day, ever, and a bunch of blooms for the memory bouqet. I realize now that the world has lost all these funny and wonderful people. This is the first Memorial Day for Mardi's and Cynthia's families. A thought too hard to linger upon. Instead, I'll think about it being the first Memorial Day that they are heavenside together.
My brother Mark was quite handsome. At least I always thought so. I wasn't very old when he and Judy brought home their twin sons, but I remember him sitting in the rocking chair, rocking one son, while the other was in a swing or a bassinet, and Mark's leg was extended, pushing it with his toe as he rocked. He looked up at me, and kind of waggled his eyebrows, and said, "Pretty cool, right?" I don't know if he meant the synchronized rocking or the fact that he was father to not one, but two boys of his own, but I remember thinking that he was, indeed, pretty cool, in that moment. I also remember that he would absentmindedly twirl Debbie's and Kerry's ponytails around his finger in a ringlet. Such little memories, yet they're clear as day in my mind. I miss my handsome brother.
I remember my Grandma Vernie showing me how to make hollyhock dolls from the hollyhocks that grew against the garage wall of her home in Shelley, and I remember my Grandma Evy showing me how to roll and fold my dad's white linen handkerchief into two babies in a bassinet, which came in very handy during church meetings that went on forever. In both cases, I remember their hands, working quickly. I remember their hands. Oh, how I remember those grandmother hands, blooms too beautiful to forget.
My in-laws, Bill and Zenna, have been part of my life since I was sixteen years old. I have as many memories of them as I do the family I was born into. One of my favorite memories is from their visit right after our daughter Meg was born. They drove down to Utah and stayed for a week to help us, and as I always did, had tried to clean the house before they arrived. When they walked in, Bill sat me down in the recliner and said, "You're going to have to look a little more needy, or I won't be able to get Zenna to stay," which was funny because he was the one who was always ready to leave the next day and get back to the farm, but then he gave me one of his famous shoulder massages and I had no problem sitting in that chair like a sloth. They were magic. Zenna appeared with a bowl of her homemade soup and a turkey sandwich and a glass of cold apple cider, none of which existed in my refrigerator, and suddenly I was Queen of the Nile, being waited on, hand and foot. "Is this needy enough?" I asked Bill, and he just winked at me. These two people were so full of love for their family. Much later, after Bill had passed away, and we didn't know it yet, but it was our last visit from Zenna, her favorite spot became the lawn chair just outside our kitchen door. She would go out there and sit with her face turned to the sun and "warm up." I can still look out my kitchen window and imagine her there, with her curlers in her hair, "warming up" for a minute with her face soaking up the sunshine, just like one of the flowers she so beautifully painted.
On one Memorial Day when I happened to be home, I was at the Taylor Cemetery with my sister Terry and ran into Aunt Betty Dineen and Aunt Betty Wright. They were doing the same thing we were--cleaning and decorating graves--only somehow they'd lost their car keys in the process. Terry offered to drive them home to get the spare set of keys, but for some reason, it wasn't that easy. Somebody had a hair appointment they were going to be late for and they were worried about leaving the car at the cemetery, and Aunt Betty Wright said, "The car's got no keys, for heaven's sake. Nobody's going to steal the thing." And Aunt Betty Dineen said, "I've had dozens of things stolen from this cemetery. You can't trust the people who come here." And then we all looked around at the geriatric crowd moving slowly between the gravestones, and Aunt Betty Wright said, "You're right. They've all got one foot in the grave. What's left to lose?" Aunt Betty Dineen looked directly at her and answered, "Car keys. That's what." Oh, how I miss my Aunt Bettys and the clever blossoms they were.
My nephew Dylan spoke really early. We all chalked it up to the fact that his big sister Sarah was super intelligent and had a huge vocabulary at a ridiculously young age and Dylan was forced to keep up, but I remember his little face, with those big round eyes, looking at anything that astounded him, as he exclaimed, "Oh my holy cows!" It was the most adorable thing in the world. When I think the line, it resides in my memory in his little boy voice and I hope it stays there forever. This weekend is the first of too many Memorial Days for Dylan's family. New. Raw. A wound that hasn't even had a chance to scab over yet, let alone heal. I pray for them to rely on all the good memories that will bloom in their minds.
I have two brothers-in-law in heaven. Tom and Bill. One a Merchant Marine; one a Naval Officer. Both men, generous, thoughtful of others, good to the in-laws, avid readers. I have countless memories of both and only now am I realizing how many similarities they shared, but the thing I loved the very most about both of them, was how much Tom loved Terry and how much Bill loved Linda. I loved them both for that!
My husband's Aunt Vera lived next door to his parents and on one of our family gatherings, we traveled home from Utah with Mike and Shelby. When we arrived, Aunt Vera was standing out on her deck, leaning on her crutches as she did, and waved one at us. So, as soon as we parked and unpacked the car, Shelby and I walked over to Aunt Vera's house to say hello. The home was originally Grandpa and Grandma Longhurst's home, and the little rooms were lined with furniture. There wasn't an open space in the place. It made Shelby's eyes fairly glitter with excitement. These two women loved a treasure. I just sat back on the sofa and listened while Aunt Vera told stories about each piece and Shelby asked questions about the people and places in the stories. It was a simple thing. An old woman and a young woman finding a tether between them. And now it is a cherished thing to have witnessed for me.
My little grandson William was only here for 90 minutes, but I have so many memories of him, most of which are too precious to put into words. I have a smooth stone, almost a pebble, in my purse, that is Will's rock. Every time my fingertips sweep past it as I reach in for something else, I think of him. I think of him.
Why is it that we wait to bring up these memories? Why do we store them away without a word until the people who shared them with us aren't around before we memorialize and eulogize and reminisce? Moving forward, I've decided to do better. I'm setting some goals to share the memories filling my head with my loved ones before I take them with me heavenside and am forced to leave the remembering to the people I leave earthside.
We all have brilliant bouquets of memories to share with the people who helped to make them bloom. Let's give them away while we can.
Comments