Christmas Carols

It's Christmas.  If my mom were here, if we were still kids, she'd have this guitar on her lap.  She'd be playing "Must Be Santa," "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," you name it.  And so, because we're now on our third Christmas without her, our third Christmas without the strum of a guitar, and because our family is now welcoming in a new generation with the birth of my niece, I'm bringing it back.  Have been practicing the classics because I want the holidays to be full of music once again.

Also, playing, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" may have made me bust out into tears.  The line, "Someday soon, we all will be together, If the fates allow," did it.

Instagram

So glad Mother's Day is over.  Bah humbug, I know.  But all these nonstop Facebook posts of people my age with their mothers, of people twice my age with their moms, kills me.  This year Facebook even reminded me to send my mother a gift, sending me an alert with her photo.  I guess Mother's Day has become for me, much what Valentine's Day is for those who are single.

In other news, I joined Instagram.  Actually, I joined it a while back but I think I might start using my account now.  So many accounts.  I don't even care about Instagram, and don't know why I plan to start using it.
I mean,  between Facebook (personal and work page) , Twitter, FourSquare, Yelp, RunKeeper, Fitocracy, LinkedIn, Pinterest, GifBoom and whatever else I choose to log in to on a given day, social media is overwhelming me.  That's why I'm taking on another account, of course.

Mom's Cheesy Potatoes

Getting ready for family Thanksgiving this weekend.  We're holding it ahead of time because of my and my sister's crazy schedules.  It's not Thanksgiving without cheesy potato casserole.  Mom always made it for me.  And so I went back through our emails for the recipe, which I asked her for years ago.

Her email (11/25/08) sent to 23-year-old me, living in North Dakota, and not making it home for the holiday, will ensure her potatoes live on:

"i sent the recipe from a website called cooks.com. 

if you don't get it that's where i got it under potato casserole.  there are so many variations on it but the biggest difference was whether to use one or two cans of cream of something soup.  i sent the one with 2 cans.  also the onions are optional.  fyi sometimes i sprinked a little parmesan on top too but that's just more money to spend. 

note that it says 2 pounds of frozen hash browns.  that is one package if i remember correctly. 

any questions call but it couldnt be much simpler. 

i think it helps to grease the pan if the recipe didn't say so.

love love love

i'll miss you but i'm not looking forward to the "sadness" tha'll be in the air and you're going to miss that!!  love   mimsy"

Bingo Bango Bongo

As Spencer and I drove to 'Hanna's Haunted Acres' last night he was full of song (as usual).  The song he chose this time though, oddly familiar.  "Bingo Bango Bongo, I don't want to leave the jungle.  I refuse to go," he sang.  Bingo Bango Bongo.  My mom used to say that all the time.  She'd clap her hands together and say loudly, in a silly way, "Bingo Bango Bongo, would you like to go to the Congo?"  I always thought it was a phrase she made up, purely out of rhyming.  Thanks to Spencer, and a video game that it turns out drilled the song into his head, I now know my mom was projecting altered lyrics of an Andrews Sisters song.  A piece of my mom, and my childhood, I never fully got, being explained.
'Civilization' by the Andrews Sisters has since become our song for the last 12 hours.  Spencer hooked up with his computer speakers, and as I sat downstairs reading this morning, I heard him blasting it upstairs in our office.

Now some randomness.  First, let me brag about how amazing Indianapolis's downtown library is.  Six floors of anything, and everything you can imagine, about a mile from our home.  Glad I didn't wait to check it out.

 

And some cute pet photos.  Zoe in wrap-around shades Spencer found among his belongings.  Livey, thinking she's hiding as usual, as she sits in a small open box in the middle of the living room.  And a photo of the cats in the kitchen, gathered around me shortly after I got home from work the other morning.

Monkey Helpers

The last email my mom sent me, entitled "Check this out!" contained a link to monkey helpers for the disabled.   Made me smile this morning as I scanned old messages she sent me.

Mom

Driving back to my apartment last night, Spencer points to a woman in a car beside us, "She looks like your mom." The woman did.  She had flowing hair just above her shoulders that was mainly gray with remants of brown.  Dimpled arms.  And square plastic glasses.  But Spencer's never met my mom, and that's why the moment was significant.  It reminded me how much she is living on in the stories we tell and the pictures we share.

 

Mom's Bed

The bed where mom spent her last hour.
Anything but a death bed. Instead, place of solace, love, and life.
Where decades ago 3 young girls found late-night comfort from tummy aches and nightmares.
And could always squeeze in, fall asleep between the snoring of two tired parents.

The bed where mom read a few pages of a book before a final stretch.
Once a king size table for family pizza parties.
Shades pulled, the five of us huddled in front of the TV as the window air conditioner hummed, keeping us cool on a hot summer day.
It’s where teenage daughters took turns crying with fears of someday losing their mom.
And they were comforted. Told that when it did someday happen, they would be ready.

The bed where mom was found. Resting peacefully.
Where we now sit, sorting out her jewelry.
The turquoise necklace Allison gave her three birthdays ago. The matching earrings we bought when she visited me in North Dakota.
A bed too big for daughters too young to start their own families, buy their own homes, and welcome their own children to their bedside.
A quarter century old cut of mahogany left behind, stained with memories of life.
Anything but a death bed.

*Since my mom's passing last year I've thought a lot about that bed.  It's presence in my life. I'm not a poet.  I haven't written a poem, actually since high school.  But this seemed like the best way to compile my thoughts.