Hillbilly Elegy

One of my former students mentioned reading this book when she was in Mexico on a vacation last spring.  The title intrigued me, and I am always looking for good book suggestions.  I asked her how she liked it and she recommended that I read it.  How can I resist a book recommendation from a former lit student?

It had been several months since I had used my Nook (a Christmas gift from Gary) and the Overdrive check out process connected to the Pulaski County Library.  But I did the other night.  My card was still in the system (they have a habit of rendering library cards inactive if they aren't used within so many months), so I was able to peruse titles and check out a few books.

When I started reading Hillbilly Elegy, I wasn't caught up in it immediately.  It was interesting, but not something that I thought I would be racing through or carrying around with me to read in the car.  However, I was wrong.

Interest point #1 - The setting is in southern Ohio and northern Kentucky. 

Interest point #2 - the main characters move from Kentucky into Ohio

Interest point #3 - some of the descriptions of the Hillbillies seem much like me.  Ok...before you jump to all kinds of conclusions...... He writes that the names Mamaw and Papaw are typically used by hillbilly families. He describes families as living in four bedroom, two bath, two story homes in the subdivisions of the towns and outwardly looking like a normal family, but inside the walls there is so much eruption, hillbilly style.  In Mt. Vernon we lived in a 3 bedroom , 1 1/2 bath ranch style house that looked normal, but inside was so much dysfunction and all heck would break loose, much as he described the eruptions at his house.

So it will be interesting to see where this book leads.

And since it is nearly 11 p.m. and I am tired, I think I will lie down with my Nook and read a chapter or two right now.....

Falling off the Wagon - Big Time

It's no secret that weight is an issue with me. It always has been. It always will be.

No matter what program I adopt - Weight Watchers several times, the LCHF recently, some type of pills for a while, I lose, then the pounds return.  Why?  No will power on my part.  I just like to eat some things and the word 'moderation' just flies out the window.

Case(s) in point:

Hartlzers Ice Cream - oh my.  So good.  We just discovered this place on May 22 when we were driving to Medina to meet Greta and Kent for her birthday dinner.  We stopped on the way back and enjoyed the most delicious, the creamiest ice cream I have ever eaten.  And the flavors were so unique and all of them were good. How do I know?  I tried a different one each time we visited over the course of the next three months, sometimes two scoops, one of each of two different kinds.  DQ ice cream is bland to me now (which is a good thing) and Harltzers is in Wooster (another good thing) so maybe that temptation will be gone after August 24 (auction date)

Wreckless eating - Last night we celebrated Gary's birthday  a day early at Olive Garden.  The weight-conscious me would have ordered soup, salad, and breadsticks and ignored the breadsticks.  Yesterday?  Three items on the Italian Feast option - Chicken parm, tortellini, and fettuccine Alfredo.  Now I did give some of the tortellini to Megan since she didn't really receive what she wanted from her order, but still.  Too much. And I felt stuffed. And I ate a breadstick.  Plus I had pie after.  Bad!  Bad! Bad!

Mindless eating - a grab here, a pop-in-the-mouth there....all dangerous for me.  Like this morning.  I fixed myself a bowl of fruit, sprinkled with some granola cereal and topped with vanilla yogurt, my usual breakfast when I am doing WW.  Fine.  But after that, I took my bowl to the sink and saw two cinnamon rolls leftover from what Gary had fixed for himself, and I grabbed one and ate it without even thinking.  I do things like that!  Why?  Why can't I just walk away?

Walk away.  That is the key. I need to just walk away.  No more mindless eating.

Better planning.  Before I go to a restaurant I need to know what I will order and stick with it.  No side temptations.

Stay away from breads, potatoes, fries, breadsticks, biscuits, desserts.  All of those things are good, yummy, and I love them all.  But they pack on the pounds and I don't need that.

I am to the point where I am struggling with the big question "What do I wear?"  One reason is that I am tired of the same clothes since I seem to be packing the same things for each trip to Ohio.  The other is that some things are becoming a little too tight and the rolls in my mid-section are showing more.  I will not buy more clothes in larger sizes.  No.  This is a big sign to me that the pounds need to come off and soon.

Plus I visit Dr. O again in a couple of weeks and he will not be pleased with the weight gain. It is true. I am healthier, my BP is better, my knees feel less sore, and I have more energy when the weight is gone.  So it needs to be.

How did this happen?  Well, the above mentioned items.  Plus the other BIG reason.

Mom died.  The stress of dealing with deaths of three parents in 14 months has hit me. 

We have been cleaning out the house.  The constant trips back and forth to Wooster from Pulaski has taken a toll on my sleeping and eating.  Since we go for days at a time, usually 5-7 days at a stretch, every day we are there is a day of cleaning, sorting, pitching, re-arranging, deciding. stacking.  We have taken a few breaks - to go to Hartzlers (!!!), to drive over to see Phil and Glenda in Beloit, to have dinner with Dale and Karen, to visit with Ryan and Jen and the kids and enjoy ice cream around their fire ring, but the day is spent at the house, the night is spent at the house, and the house is full of stuff that needs to be sorted.  So sorting we do.  Even to sit and watch tv in the evening is to sit in awkward positions in the midst of boxes and crates.  Eating a meal requires moving stacks of items or working around more boxes to find a place to sit.  When we have all been there (Gary and I; Megan, Matt, and Cooper; Hilary, Blaine, Landon, Tessa, and Owen) there are more people to work around and more tasks to complete and more organization needed to get the work done so we can have the auction in August. Items moved from the attic to the garage.  Tubs moved from room to room. Boxes of books taken to the bookstore (several trips over several weeks).  Stacks of magazines taken to the recycling center.  More boxes picked up at Buehlers (we are getting to know the meat cutters really well there-they recognize us now!)  Dumpster filled.  Freezers emptied.  Fruit cellar cleaned out.  More trash and more trash.  U-Haul filled and vehicles filled several times for trips back to Indiana. 


The emotional stress takes a toll too.  As I wrote about before, my parents are dead.  Even when we return home, I am faced with the fact that my in-laws are dead too, each and every time we go to The Farm, which is frequently.  Death seems to be everywhere around me.  Now Agnes' brother died also and we will go to the funeral home again on Monday to pay our respects. Emotional stress.

Plus cleaning out the house is like watching my life flash before my eyes.  Finding all of the items from my childhood, from The Little Brown House on 62, from Mt. Vernon.  Some of those memories are good ones.  Some are bad and hard to handle.  But they are memories that have been popping up.  Memories I need to deal with.  And it is emotionally hard.

So what have I been doing?  Falling off the wagon. Eating.  Eating more.  Eating recklessly.  Not paying attention to what I eat and how much I eat. 

It has to stop. Now.  Today.  I know what to do.  I need to focus and just do it.

 

Me, Myself, and Lies - The End !!

It took a while, and I didn't end on time with the OBS, but I finally finished the book Me, Myself, and Lies by Jennifer Rothschild.  Despite the sidetracks, the interruptions, and the downright lack of focus during the last few months, I persevered and completed!  Check another OBS off the list as COMPLETED!  Not bad for someone who started this journey with Proverbs 31 studies a few years ago and faltered repeatedly, starting strong and fizzling before the finish.  

First of all  this morning I had to search for my book!  I knew it was around here somewhere, and it did take a little while to find in under a stack of things to take to Megan today that were piled in the orange chair.  

I settled into the recliner, determined.  First of all I looked for the passage from page 140 that Rhonda had mentioned in the FB post. Actually I read the paragraph before and the entire paragraph containing the sentence and the paragraph following.  "I am who I am and where I am because of God."  This thought has popped up frequently in the last few weeks.  

I often say I made the conscious choice to stay in Indiana rather than move back to Ohio when Mom and Dad did in 1973.  The underlying reason was that I didn't want to be around Mom and her verbal abuse, her condescension, and her critical, domineering attitude toward me and everyone else in the family.  What I realize now is that it really wasn't my conscious choice - it was God's plan for my life.  He led me to West Central and my first job. I was much happier there than I would have been at West Lafayette who called me after I signed the WC contract (and thankful for a dad that stressed honoring your word).  If I hadn't been at WC, I wouldn't have met Gary, fallen in love, married him, built a family with him, had a successful and happy teaching career at WC, had the opportunity to teach at Purdue, then at Ivy Tech.  I wouldn't have had a supportive extended family of in-laws who loved and cared for me every day. No, it wasn't really MY choice at all. It was all God's plan.

Moving to the final chapter, Chapter 11. "Lift Up:  Praise the Lord, O My Soul" is the title.  What I noticed about this chapter was that the focus needs to shift from 'me' to 'God' and 'others.'  As I read, I was rather smug, thinking that I do this all the time, that my mom was the self-centered one.  Indeed, part of that was true.  When I read 'It's all about me' on page 194 and "What can appear on the surface to be an inflated opinion of self is often a flimsy attempt to compensate for the very opposite" on page 195 and finally "Remaining self-centered is easier if you remain isolated" on page 197 all pointed to Mom.  The first quote from page 194 is Mom all over.  Everything WAS about her, never about anyone else.  SHE was what was most important, and if it couldn't be her, then it was how she belittled others to make herself appear better than they were, thus trying to elevate herself, which brings us to the quote from page 195.  The picture that comes to mind with the last quote from page 197 is that of Mom sitting in the ugly chair, light turned on, darkened room because the drapes were drawn and the trash bag taped over the door windows and the blinds closed, isolating herself and being the self-centered person that she was.  But then...I moved to the checklist on page 196.  Lo and behold, I saw myself in some of those qualities.  

Out-of-balance self-awareness.  Oh my.  Lonely center of my thought closet.  Oh my again.  

Now my first thought was that it wasn't entirely my fault that some of these were part of me.  Why not?  Because Mom always made us (Greta and me) feel like everything was our fault, and part of that has stayed with me through the years.  I always feel like things are my fault and I am always bristling when I am blamed or when I feel like I WILL be blamed, even if it is not spoken aloud.  I am working on this.  

I do stumble at criticism.  I always have.  I try so hard to do what is expected, to make people happy, to earn their trust and respect by not ruffling feathers too much.  So when I hear criticism, I bristle.  Once more--a throw back to Mom who could find something wrong in every good thing that I ever did or that ever happened in my life (re: Megan's wedding and Mom's constant pecking at Greta to tell her what went wrong so she could elevate the negative over the positives of a beautiful ceremony and wonderful reception and a fun time)  It's hard to get out of the mindset that everyone will criticize me.  Thin skin? Yes.  It's been thin for a long time.

Offended by people's behavior - Not as much as I used to be.  I think seeing FB posts by people who hide behind fake names and trash everything and like to argue has helped me not have an inflated view of myself.  I am learning to ignore them and try to show good morals and values in my interactions with others.

This one is hard - "If you take personally every comment made in your presence, chances are you think the world revolves around you!"  I don't think the world revolves around me, by any stretch of the imagination.  But I do take too many comments personally.  Why?  Well, blanket statements made in the hope that the person who needs to hear it, will.  At West Central, because some teachers were not at their stations for bathroom duty between classes, we were all reprimanded and told we would be watched and our absences from our posts noted.  That made me wonder if the time a student stayed after class for some extra help and I didn't get to the restroom door as quickly as I should have was noted and I would then be in trouble for that.  Same thing with bus duty, even though I never missed, but I might not be there exactly after the bell rang because a student needed help or had a question or stopped by my room after classes for a newspaper to take home. In my head I would know that another teacher down the hall who never went to bathroom duty was the target (and totally oblivious to the reminder), but that didn't stop me from thinking that maybe, just maybe, I needed to clean up my act.  The same thing would happen at Ivy Tech - we had to be more diligent in mentoring students so we were required to log every interaction in a notebook which would be checked by our program chairs or deans. I already mentored my students and I knew I did a good job with it, but I immediately thought I was being targeted as not doing enough.  Or why wouldn't I think the comment might be aimed at me if I heard someone in the hall say, outside my door, "Well, doesn't she ever look in the mirror before she leaves the house?  Can't she see how terrible those clothes fit her?" and I look at my new outfit and wonder if what I thought looked really nice on me...didn't.  If I walked into the lab and overheard two students talking about how unfair the grading was on a particular assignment, then they noticed me and stopped talking....I automatically thought they were talking about me.  A few times I  jokingly said "Ok...talking about me again?" and they laughed and explained another instructor and an experience from another class that they shared.  I don't think the world revolves around me, rather that things may be said in my presence so I can 'take the hint' rather than telling me to my face.

But when I really think deeply about it....none of these things are true nor are they important.  I don't need to please others; I need to please God.  I don't need the acceptance of others; I have been accepted by God.  I am a sinner, I do things that are wrong, and I need to rectify my mistakes, but the ultimate forgiveness comes from God. As long as I am living a Godly life, treating others as I want to be treated, and putting others first, then the focus on me will decrease and the focus on others will increase.

Nonetheless, I need to work on these things too.  The bottom line is that I do the three things that Jennifer recommends on page 197:

1.  Pray that I will decrease and God will increase.  This is something that I have been working on sporadically and need to be more diligent about.

2.  Practice emptying myself. Focus on others.  

3.  Stay connected with others.  The more I do with others and FOR others, the less focused I will be on myself. I know this is true.  When I felt sorry for myself on campus or was having a bad day, just focusing on my students and helping them was uplifting and soon my own grumpiness vanished.

Whew!  Another book finished.  Another OBS finished. The in-depth Bible study that I craved did not happen because of the time constraints, but I will be sure to include in the next one, which is coming up in September.  I will be ready. Book is ordered and should be delivered next week.  By the time the study begins, the auction will be over and the estate close to being settled, the baby will be closer to the birth date, and maybe life can settle into somewhat of a routine once again.

This was a great study.  Just what I needed. And why am I not surprised?  Because God's timing is perfect.

Another Step

I remember when we were still living in The Little Brown House on 62.  I brought in the Alliance Review one afternoon and saw my Grandpa Henderson's picture on the front page.  Before I could read the headline or the article, I said to Mom, "Hey, look at this!  It's Grandpa Henderson!" Her response?  "What happened?  He didn't die, did he?"  

I thought that was an odd response because I never thought my grandparents at that time were close to being of dying age.  The article actually highlighted my grandfather's career and congratulated him on his retirement.  I was very proud of him - he was the first person I really knew who was...retired.  (and after I thought about it...wouldn't my mother have known if her father-in-law had died long before his picture appeared in the paper?)

Maybe it's because of Mom's response to seeing Grandpa's picture in the paper that I associated retirement with being close to death.  I should know better.  Many people live for many years after their retirement.  Some accept the offer of an "early retirement" package, then secure another job and retire again.  Dad did that with leaving Babcock & Wilcox in 1973, then Diamonite in Shreve ten years later.  I followed in his footsteps without really knowing it when I took advantage of the Rule of 85 when my years of teaching (33) and my age (55) totaled at least 85.  West Central gave me a retirement package plus I was able to draw on my benefits from the Indiana State Teachers Retirement Fund.  After 10 years at Ivy Tech, I can also draw from the TIAA/CREF retirement fund.

People retire at earlier ages often, then pursue another venue of a similar career choice or a different track as they move through their adult years. Often this time is after the children are grown and move out of the house into homes with families of their own.

But still..there are steps. Milestones, maybe.  Rites of passage.

The Retirement Fund.  Yep, that definitely is one.   Check that off the list for ISTRF but not for TIAA/CREF yet.  I am still sitting on that one, building up the interest a little more until I start to draw it.

Social Security.  That was a new concept for me and hard to accept.  But the money coming in on the second Wednesday of the month (for me) and the fourth Wednesday (for Gary) is very nice and evenly spaced.

Membership in AARP?  Yep, got it!

Medicare and supplements.  Ugh.  That was a hard one.  Necessary but difficult to accept.  But in the end, it's just insurance.  We have cards. We use them.

Senior discounts - at various places.  At first it bothered me when I was just given the discount at Arby's or Taco Bell or another place-no questions from the person behind the counter, just an assumption that I was ....old.  Now it doesn't bother me.  Why?  Who cares as long as the price is lower?

Today there was another perk.  Or step.  Or milestone.  Or whatever you want to call it.

The Senior Pass to the National Parks and Historical Centers.  The lifetime pass is $10, but that price will rise to $80 at the beginning of September.  Because we want to go to Mt. Rushmore and have aspirations to explore other areas of the country where this pass might become useful and save us some money in the long run, we drove to The Dunes Visitors Center north of Chesterton today.  

The line was not long - only two people in front of us.  There were several behind us however.  The process was easy.  Driver's license?  Check!  Print the name?  Check!  Signature?  Check!  Tuck license back in wallet?  Check!  Sign the back of the pass?  Check!  Pay the $20 for two?  Check!  Walk out!

Easy, peasy!  And who cares?  I am not old!  I am just retired!

 

Thud!

I am not sure what was wrong with me today, but something was.

From the moment I was awake until now, at 10:00 p.m., I have felt emotionally drained.  Nothing is right.  I am tired.  I am cranky.  I just feel bad.

I don't want to clean out things any more. I just don't.  When I walked out of the house in Wooster on Friday, I felt like a weight had lifted.  We were done cleaning out.  The rest would be left to whoever Mark the Auctioneer put into the house to complete the clean out and sort and prepare for August 24's auction date.  I was done with it all.

I was even ok for a few days here at home.  We took some of the boxes containing the china I decided to keep, the dishes Gary wanted, and the crystal that Grandma had given me years ago that Mom would never let me have to the Quonset until we found a place for them.  Gary and Blaine moved the heavy chest of drawers that Greta and I used in the Little Brown House on 62 into Hilary's old bedroom for me to use for storage of my quilting stuff.  Bits and pieces of things were added to our kitchen or living room or found a new home with no problem.

Then I started cleaning out the girls' two bedrooms upstairs.  Again.  We had cleaned out Hilary's old room a couple of years ago, sorting, pitching, burning things that were no longer needed.  Megan's room contains the dresser and closet that I use, so I had purged them many times through the years and just this summer, cleaned off the bookshelves to take some to the Books In Stock store and to find places for a few I had brought back with me from Wooster.

But this time, I was delving into other areas.  The stacks of things on the futon, which, as I wrote about yesterday, contained many empty bags, crumpled up tissue paper, torn gifts bags, sales receipts that were quite dated.  But in Megan's room it was a different story.  The last time some of the things had been sorted was maybe....2004.  It was around the time she took the job at CP and moved to her own apartment.  She sorted and took things with her, but she also left a lot of things with the admonition of "Don't touch these!  Don't throw anything away! I want to save it all!"  Now she doesn't remember saying that; her dad and I do.  So I really haven't touched anything, especially in that southwest corner and along the west wall of the room.

So far I have found lots of yarn, actually too much yarn.  I have enough yarn for washcloths and scarves for a long time of knitting pleasure.  Then I found tons of fabric. Nothing like what we found in Mom's laundry area or the walk-in closet there, but enough that I have many projects to finish before I start something new.  Those things I can handle ok.  Really.

But what happens to all of the pictures I have found?  I pitched some of them.  Blurry photos.  Photos of students if I can't even remember their names.  Pictures of Student Council activities.  Many senior pictures that I had collected (after I read the notes on the backs, of course).  But what to do with the rest of them?  

Then there are all of the dolls and the stuffed animals.  What to do with them?  Some of them are Beanie Babies.  Some are Boyds Bears.  Some of the dolls are Cabbage Patch kids. Probably every one of them has a special significance, not to me perhaps, but to Megan and Hilary.  What to do with all of them?  Put them in tubs and store them.  Give them to Goodwill?  Find a donation center, like a hospital or an ambulance service who might need dolls or stuffed animals for young patients?

So why the 'Thud' in the title of this post?  Because when I came home this time, I just wanted to get back to a somewhat normal life again.  Yeah, I know.  What is 'normal' anyway?  But a normal type of existence where the focus is on us, on our family, on activities both at home and outside the home, cooking meals, weeding the garden, running the sweeper, buying some groceries.  maybe going to a movie, taking the kids somewhere fun....and what am I faced with?  Going through drawers and closets and bags and notebooks.  Again.  Not as bad as at Mom's.  But again.  Same process.

I know. It could be worse.  What if something had happened to one of us?  Or to one of the girls?  What if one of us were really ill right now?  What if we were destitute?  There are so many things that have not happened to us, that i should be ashamed of feeling blue just because I have to clean out some closets and drawers.  

So ok. Here is the real reason for the "Thud" today.  It hit me hard that both of my parents are dead.  They are dead.  They have died.  They are not coming back. Not only that, but both of Gary's parents are dead.  They are not coming back either. Neither of us have parents anymore.  They are gone.  I miss Leo and Agnes so much and it hurt to go to The Farm yesterday and today.  It hurt to walk in the house and hear nothing but silence.  To see things piled around on the tables and in the living room.  It smells empty.  And I told Gary today that the outside is beginning to look neglected.  Mowing has been sporadic lately because we haven't been home, and it looks like it hasn't been mowed consistently.  Big weeds were lining the exterior of the house.  Weeds are growing in our tomato plants.  There are no signs of life---because there is no life there.  It hurt my heart so much.  I miss them.

And even though my mom didn't call us, nor did she like it when I called her, and we didn't talk to her very often, she was still there in Wooster.  We know now that she was very sick which had caused her to act the way that she had for many years, but she was still my mother and my mother is gone.  During the five weeks that we have been at the house, cleaning out and sorting and stacking and pitching, I have missed my dad so much.  It is like I am grieving for him all over again.  I can feel him around me.  I can feel him squeeze my shoulder when they sag under the weight of  yet another drawer to sort through.  I can feel his smile when Landon asked for the drafting table and chair.  I look at Grandpa's table with Dad's flag from his casket sitting on it each and every time I pass through our living room.

Today it hurt. And it hurt so much that I sat on the edge of the bathtub with the bathroom door closed and sobbed for a long time.  My parents are dead.  My in-laws are dead.  They are gone.  They are never coming back.

I miss them.

De-Cluttering

With the addition of several pieces of furniture, many picture albums, and other odds and ends from the house in Wooster into our house, there is a need for de-cluttering.

Every once in a while I will go through closets and drawers and cart several bags of clothes to Goodwill.  Not often, though, do I sift through other items and pitch.  I just can't toss things that can still be used. Since I am detest garage sales and will never participate in one again (I know...never say 'never'? -- well, I mean it!), my only options are to place in a bag for donation or....the auction!

Sunday Blaine and Gary moved the bigger chest of drawers into Hilary's old bedroom.  Now I had cleaned that room out a couple of years ago and had done a decent job of pitching and donating. But as I started to go through the pile on the futon and the bags sitting in front of it, I realized that the tendency to save useless items had been raging full force inside me.  NO! NO! NO!

Empty bags.  Perfectly good bags that could be reused to put shoes or other items in when packing a suitcase.  Bags that could be used to take things to other houses.  But who needs hundreds of them?  Not me!  So they were pitched along with sales receipts from Christmas 2015 and Christmas 2016.  Pictures were taken out of frames and the frames added to the 'take to Ohio for the auction' pile.  Small items purchased for Christmas stockings or small gifts for friends were put together in a box so they could be found easily.  A few items I had already purchased for Lynnlee were put together also.  Then I used two of the large drawers in the new dresser for items I could group together. One for Christmas type things - rolls of wrapping paper (they just fit!), tissue papers, boxes of Christmas cards, bows.  Another drawer was good for some odds and ends of craft projects, the glue gun and glue sticks, some ribbon and lace, and a few other things that I could just grab when needed.

At the end of my evening, two bags of trash had made their way to the back door and two bags for Goodwill were ready to stash in the Escape for Friday's trip to Lafayette.

Tomorrow I start on Megan's old bedroom.  The southwest corner is stacked with who-knows-what that has been there since she moved out years ago.  Time to go through that stuff and make some decisions.  Trash?  Donation?  Cart to her house?  

I am on a mission, and I will not be deterred.  De-cluttering is the Word of the Week!

Mornings and Mondays

Recently a former student posted on FB how much she liked Mondays and commented that others would probably be jeering her for her thoughts.  No jeers from me, just head nods as I read.

I like Mondays too - now.  When I was teaching?  Not so much because I lost the free time, family time, time to just breathe.  Returning to school on Monday morning was a return to the focus of hundreds of students, lesson plans, objectives to be met, tests to give and grade, and meetings to attend.  Even at the college level I started Monday morning, no really Sunday evening, with a mental run-through of the week's activities so that my bags could be ready for the trips to Logansport, Kokomo, and Rochester.

But really what I like about Mondays is this - fresh start to the week.  An entire week stretched out in front of me like a blank canvas, ready to be painted.  I love that concept.

And that is what I like about mornings also.  The start of a new day, full of possibilities.  

A morning that is full of sunshine is even better.  For instance this morning as I type this blog post, I am sitting in Hilary's old bedroom, looking out at the sunshine peeking through the leaves of the locust tree in the back yard.  If I lean a bit to the right, I can see the back backyard with freshly mowed green grass, the flower bed surrounding the old outhouse, and the sun shining on the yellow Adirondack chair on the patio.  A fresh morning, the start of a new day, full of promise.

When I woke up this morning, the sun was peeking through the sides of the windows where the shades didn't cover.  The breeze was drifting through the open windows.  The soft whirr of the fans fell gently on my ears.  The morning was perfect.

Fresh start to a new week.  Fresh start to a wonderful day.  What can be better than a Monday or a morning full of sunshine and promise?

And Then It Hit Me!

I have retired from teaching.  

Ok...I know this happened on August 19, 2016.  Last year.  

But I started the semester with the non-instructional week like everyone else did.  THEN my last day came---and went.  

Hilary, Greta, and I went to the Belong! conference in Columbus, Ohio, immediately after I walked out of Ivy Tech for the last time as an employee.

Gary and I went to Memphis in September -and there were NO KIDS anywhere.  School was in session.

Harvest time - I rode in the combine.  I helped in the field.  

No time off needed to help care for Agnes---or asking for days off for the services.

Thanksgiving and Christmas?  Smooth.  Lots of homemade projects and gifts.

Relaxed time at Gatlinburg - except for the bug bites.

No fear of snow days and slick roads.

Many trips to Ohio while Mom was ill and in the nursing home.

A cruise in March.

A trip to Charleston and MB in early May.

Many trips to Wooster to clean out the house made easier with no summer classes to teach.

School calendars are not a part of my life anymore and I don't keep up on when classes are going on and when they are not.

So why did it hit me now?

Back to School shopping.

Of course it is still July, temps in the 90s, and humidity high, but school will be starting in early August.  I guess.  I don't really know for sure of exact start dates.  Why?  Because I don't have to be there.

But I do like Back to School shopping.  And until a few years ago, I still took the M and H shopping a week or so before school started so we could have lunch and I could buy them each a new outfit.

Back to School shopping.  The newness of pencils and pens, folders and binders, new bookbags.  New clothes.  New shoes.  A trip to the dentist, the doctor maybe, the hair stylist for a 'before school starts' haircut, the optometrist for new glasses.

The expectations of a new year.  New teacher(s).  New classroom (s).  New classmates.  New things to learn.  Each year a little more advanced than the year before.  

Fresh starts.  Clean slate for perfect attendance.  Clean slate for Honor Roll.  

New objectives and teaching techniques.  New lesson plans.  New philosophies.  New methods.

But not for me.  None of it is for me.

It hit me.  I am done.  I am not part of it anymore.

But yes, you say.  You haven't been part of a classroom for an entire year!  The schedule has started and ended without you for a fall and a spring and a summer semester.  This is not a new thing.

This year seems different.  With the amount of time spent in Wooster and the focus in my mind on cleaning out the house, I feel like I lost out on summer with the kids.

What happened to putting up the pop-up and camping with Landon?  When did the tea party trip go with Tessa?  I guess we exchanged the trips to the ice cream place in Lafayette with trips to Hartzlers (better ice cream anyway!) and instead of camping we had overnights at our 'summer home' in Wooster.  We did go to Columbian Park for a picnic and playground. Landon spent a day at the Pulaski County Fair with us.  Cooper was with us for an entire week at the end of June.

As I lamented about the loss of summer on the drive home from Lafayette today, I remembered that these 'start dates' and 'Back to School' shopping trips really don't affect me.  For the first time in many years I can enjoy summer as it is supposed to be ---until Labor Day.  August will be still be summer for us.

Also "Back to School" shopping is expensive and nerve racking at times.  Finding just the right item in the store to match the required item on the list?  Sometimes impossible.

Strike the 'expensive.'  Every penny we spent was worth it for the girls to be able to have the materials needed to enhance their learning. And I know that teachers spend so much of their own money on supplies also.

It did hit me today.  I have retired.  I am not going to school anymore.  No more classes or meetings or planning or grading for Mrs. Siemens. I pitched the last of the ENGL 222 and ENGL 223 materials yesterday.

Now I can really be retired and enjoy spending time doing what I  want to do. 

Yay!!!

Simple Meals

Tuesday last week Blaine was in charge of dinner in Wooster.  He wasn't assigned that duty; he told us he was taking care of it.  He had brought fresh green beans from his garden in Pyrmont, stopped at the store in Wooster and picked up potatoes and sausage plus some bacon, and planned a dinner for all 11 of us, including Greta who was helping with the clean out that day.

Early in the morning he snapped and cleaned the beans, then put them in a pot to cook all day.  Every time I walked through the kitchen I could smell the aroma of freshly picked green beans simmering in hot water and hear the gentle bubbles bursting against the sides of the kettle.  Later he cooked potatoes, added sausage to the pot, and dinner was ready.  Nothing tasted better after a long day of sorting, cleaning, and purging more and more closets and drawers than a from-the-garden type of dinner. Piping hot and tasty!  Just what we needed.  Plus a side benefit was the low cost.  Dining in a restaurant for our meals can be quite costly when we are there for several days.  An economical meal was a special treat for the credit and debit cards!

Yesterday Gary and I were talking about meal possibilities since we were going to be home for several days in a row.  I picked up some fresh green beans at Krogers along with two packages of sausage.  This morning after church I layered the green beans, potato slices, chopped up sausage pieces, sliced onion, in the crockpot.  After grinding some pepper and salt over the mixture, I added water, clamped down the lid, and turned the dial to Low. 

After several hours of stirring the pot, taste testing the contents, and smelling the delicious aroma, we decided it was time to enjoy the feast.  Added to the meal were several ears of sweet corn that we picked up at Welkers on the way home from church.

One word - delicious.  The sausage wasn't quite a good as that in Blaine's mixture last week, but the rest of the dish was superb. Hot.  Tender.  Tasty.  Just the right amount of seasoning.  Add some butter and I was all set!  And the sweet corn was super also!  For dessert later in the evening?  Fresh strawberry shortcake (with some raspberries and blackberries thrown in).

You just can't beat this type of meal in the summertime.  Quick.  Easy.  Tasty.  Filling. Economical. And much of it comes from the garden or the produce section of the store.  Give me this summer food anytime!

Thanks, Blaine, for the inspiration!  It was SO good (and there is enough left for tomorrow's lunch also!)

Life in a Box - Part 2

Morning conversation -

Gary:  How did you sleep?

Me:  Well, ok.  But I was up and awake for about two hours.

Gary:  Why?

Me:  Because I had thoughts running through my head and they wouldn't leave so I thought if I wrote about them, I would get them out of my system.  So I turned on the computer and typed in my blog.

Gary:  Did it help?

Me:  I guess so.  I went back to bed at 6:30 and slept until 9:30!

Later we talked about my focus of the blog post and Gary added these insights.

Mom did not want to appear stupid or ill-informed, or heaven forbid - wrong!  So she read and watched and tried to keep up to date on current event type of topics.  When she talked to others, she could throw out information that she had heard or read and if they were not aware of the topic, then she could feel superior to them.  However, she was 'behind' in other things, such as technology. She had no idea how to use a cell phone.  She couldn't  use a computer.  She couldn't even put gas into her car because Dad always did that for her and she was clueless on the process.  She never attended high school activities, nor did she spend any time outside to chat with the neighbors, so she mocked those who did.

We recalled the time that Dad wanted Mom to have a cell phone after he became ill.  He was concerned that she would be on her way to Buehlers or Walmart and experience car problems and have no way to get help.  He asked me to help him with selecting a phone for her birthday ( I think).  Hilary spent so much time trying to set it up and explaining it to her.  However she never used it.  She would take it with her while Dad was living, but after he died, she refused.  We had paid the monthly bill for both his phone and hers and had just written a check for the next month's service after his death, but she refused to use the phone.  In retrospect her refusal was not just being stubborn and thinking that she was above having any type of trouble when out driving to and from the "North End."  Her refusal was based on her lack of knowledge on how to use the phone.  She was confused (as we could tell by looking at her face during the explanations) but she couldn't admit that (which would mean there was something she DIDN'T know) so she decided she was above using a phone and never had accidents so it was pointless to carry one with her.

The same thing happened with the computer.  While Dad was eager to learn and communicated with me via email, she was disinterested.  She had no time to use the computer since she was busy with her chores and reading and cooking meals for Dad.  She didn't want to listen to our talk about online courses or communicating with relatives on Facebook or emails or text messages or sending information through cyberspace---not because she was just too busy to be bothered with it but because....she couldn't understand it.  Asking for help or instructions was not something she could do, especially from us. After all she knew more than we did about everything.  In a way it was a blessing that she didn't know how to use the computer because if she had understood Amazon or ordering books from Barnes and Noble or had watched the home shopping network, we might have had much more to clear out of the house in unopened boxes.  

I remember that Dad was annoyed because Mom needed a new sewing machine. She had to have a certain model so he gave it to her for Christmas one year.  When I brought it home with me last month, the instructions were still attached to it and it had never been used.  My guess now is that she didn't understand how to use it, refused to ask for help because that would mean there was something she didn't know how to do, so it sat.  The same thing may have happened with the boxes of quilt pieces that were cut and never sewn.  Maybe the next steps eluded her and she wouldn't ask for help.

How many times did I need help with Excel spreadsheets and make my way to Barb's office for instructions?  Why do I sign up for classes at Betty's Quilting?  So that I can learn new techniques and easier methods.  I always have questions. She has the answers.  I remember Dad telling me (and I listened to him tell Blaine this also) that we can watch someone do something and stand and assist and remain an assistant.  Or we can watch and learn the steps, the whys, and the reasons behind it.  Then we can learn much more and soon we will be the ones who assign the jobs to those we formerly assisted.  Did you follow that?  For instance, I could have remained an adjunct instructor, teaching the curriculum of someone else, or I could delve into the course, learn the objectives, create new techniques, apply for full time position, then move through re-classification and be the one who creates the curriculum for the courses.  Which is exactly what I did.  Along the way I asked for help.  Because I had questions.  I needed answers.  I had to ask those who already knew.  And I built from that.  Mom didn't understand that process.  So she kept herself in a box--and the sewing machine and all of the fabric pieces stayed there with her.

In case you are wondering, Life in a Box is not a phrase I created.  No, it isn't.  It is one my dad used when referring to Mom's choices when we first moved to Mt. Vernon.  She chose to stay at home, not go out and meet people, not to be involved in any activities.   While my perception of this is that she was rebelling against being there by NOT being happy, NOT trying, NOT cooperating, I think more so now that this was the beginning of an illness for her.  Something snapped in her to cause her to sequester herself in the house, to isolate herself from others, and to then become the martyr when she discussed her loneliness. That type of manipulation and the responses to it may have triggered the lying and story-telling that seemed to permeate her life.  

I am not a psychologist, nor do I really need answers.   But I do need to sleep at night, and expressing my feelings in the written word does help.

Sweet dreams!

Life in a Box

You know, some things are just troubling.  And those same things can drive one crazy if dwelled upon for long periods of time.  

Yes, it is not yet 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday.  Yes, I should be sleeping in my own bed for the first time in many days.  But this has been on my mind, and I find the best way for me to erase it out of my mind is to write about it.  So here I am.  Sitting in the dark, waiting for the sunrise, listening to my husband make sleepy noises in the next room.

Through the cleaning out process at Mom and Dad's house, we have come across so many items that are baffling, along with the memory-triggers that bring laughter and tears.  Those baffling items have been the focus of my sleeplessness tonight/ this morning.  Here goes...

Mom spent her last few years living alone in the house in Wooster.  The house is a ranch style, built in the 1960s probably, and they moved into it when Dad took a position at Diamonite in Shreve in 1973.  Through the years there was painting of a few rooms, new carpet in the living room and dining area, the addition of a walk-in closet in the basement, a patio added at the downstairs outside entrance, a storage barn and relaxation area built at the left property line, and more.  But since Dad died in 2009, and even a couple of years before that, the house became more of a prison, an enclosure, a dungeon rather than a bright airy comfortable home.  What happened?

If one walked into that house six months ago, one would have felt stifled and enclosed.  All of the drapes were drawn, the blinds closed, and there was a black trash bag over the windows on the front door which was always shut and dead-bolted. Because it was so closed up, the house smelled musty and old.  Because Mom was limited in her capacity to move about, cobwebs, dust, and debris took up residence in the corners, on the floors, and around the light fixtures.  The house was not a pleasant place to visit - physically.

Since Mom entered the hospital for the valve replacement in December 2016, and since Gary and I have been staying at the house frequently, the first thing I always do when we arrive is open the drapes, raise the blinds, and open the doors.  Lights are on.  Windows are opened to allow fresh air to enter.  Cobwebs are swatted down.  The sweeper is run across the floors and a new package of Pledge wipes is on the table as a reminder to dust the furniture frequently.  Slowly the house has become 'normal' again, smells fresher, and is quite comfortable, even with the boxes of auction items stacked everywhere now.

So why was the house like that?  From reading some of the notes and a few journal entries, looking at the stacks of newspapers and magazines, sifting through countless clippings of recipes, obituaries, wedding announcements, and human interest articles, I have come to several conclusions.

First, Mom did not like people.  She like to know ABOUT people, which is why she read the newspaper from front to back, several times, why she watched the Cleveland news, and why she read magazines. Sharing all of the pertinent information she knew about houses that were sold and the amount paid for them, marriages and divorces, people who had been picked up for DUIs, news personalities and their personal lives - those were important topics of conversation for her to share---and dominate in a conversation with others---and give an air of inside knowledge that elevated her status (in her mind). 

On Wednesday evening when we visited with The Four, both Maxine and Marleen mentioned talking for hours to Mom on the phone.  I have experienced those phone conversations.  And the person doing the talking has always been Mom.  The topics?  See the above paragraph.  Nothing was ever asked about me, Gary, the girls, the extended family.  No.  In fact, anything I mentioned about one of us was a springboard for her more important sharing of information she had read in the paper or had seen on television which was presented as first-hand knowledge.  Since Mom didn't actually know these people or actually go anywhere to experience this things - by her choice of course - she could still give the impression of being 'in the know' and 'close to the source' by everything she read and saw.  And she could only do that by sequestering herself in the house and reading newspapers and watching television. She took some basic information and created her own stories to share. 

Second, Mom liked to control.  She was in charge.  Everything had to be on her terms.  She didn't like to share.  She had a schedule to follow and no one could suggest that she change it.  People cannot be controlled, but possessions can.  All of the plates in the china cabinet were stacked with the designs matching, one on top of the other.  Everything was organized in the cabinets.  Sets of necklaces, earrings, and bracelets were in zip lock baggies in the drawers.  Used panty hose were in small bags.  Boxes of plastic containers were stacked up in orderly columns.  Every nook and cranny had an organized box or bag.  File boxes with hanging folders included more folders with clippings which were paper clipped together.  Bundles of scrap paper were rubber-banded and stacked under the desk and behind the dining room chair. Stacks of books.  Packs of greeting cards.  Aprons hanging on those multiple space saving hangers.  And everything shoved into every available spot in the dark house.  She could control the possessions.  She couldn't control people.  One of the things she yelled at me a few years ago when she was furious with Gary and me was that she couldn't control me anymore, that I was so uncontrollable.  She needed to be able to control---and her possessions were the only thing where she felt success.

Third, Mom felt inferior to others.  I said that.  She would never say that.  But from things that I have read and noticed as I have worked through all of the papers in her 'office' and notes I have found tucked in drawers, she felt inferior.  She always mentioned that she was salutatorian of her graduating class---and she was.  And that is an accomplishment.  But her class had under 20 people in it. Plus when we found her report cards, the grades would put her in the middle of a graduating class today.  Nothing stellar---not even good grades in home ec.  She often mentioned that Dad wouldn't allow her to take classes, but since she graduated in 1944, the war was going on, money was tight, and her grades were not scholarship worthy, plus the fact that many women just didn't go to college then, I think the blame was ill-placed.  No college education for Mom, but Dad completed many college level classes, and both Greta and I have degrees.  Because she didn't, she felt inferior.  Her way to compensate for that was first to not associate with others who might be smarter than she was and she could not keep up with the conversations or to mock those who had the education which she didn't. In the journal she kept during the Marriage Encounter she and Dad attended in 1979, she wrote that she was writing about nothing, just writing, because everyone else was and she didn't want to appear that she wasn't as smart as they were.  She didn't understand the terminology, the purpose of the encounter, what they were supposed to be doing, plus Dad was resisting participation, so she felt beneath the others and was trying to mask that.  She also wrote about a woman who came to Hair Benders at the same time Mom did.  This woman always gave the impression that she was smarter, had more money, and was socially above others, including Mom.  Mom heard later that most of the woman's 'presence' was just a show, and Mom was upset that she was made to feel inferior to her.  I also read a letter that Dad wrote about Mom keeping herself at home, refusing to meet other people when we moved to Mt. Vernon, and choosing to isolate herself.  That is what she did often in Wooster as well.  Isolation suited her.  No one could make her feel inferior.  No one could question her.  No one could talk about something of which she had no knowledge and couldn't participate in the conversation, so she just stayed at home.  By herself. With her things. She also felt threatened by education. One paper that I found tucked in a drawer including her frustration with those college educated people who think they now have all the answers to everything - which she wrote after a phone conversation with me.

Mom spent the last eight years of her life in a box.  The curtains were drawn.  The blinds were closed.  There was a black trash bag taped over the windows on the front door.  The only lights on were by the ugly chair where she sat and slept.  Stacks of old newspapers were next to that chair---and by the table---and in the middle bedroom.  She read--and re-read.  She watched the Cleveland news so she knew what was going on in the city--and with the newscasters' lives.  She had topics of conversations for the many phone calls with Maxine and Marleen and she could dominate because they were not as knowledgable as she was.

What a sad way to live.  Not for me.  But it worked for her.  Life in a Box.

I'm Done

i didn't sleep much last night.  Or the night before.  Or the night before that.

Why?

The bed, for one thing.  A standard or double or full or whatever you want to call it instead of our usual queen.

Feeling enclosed.  I feel trapped in that room. Even though the door is open, I feel like I just can't breathe. It's stuffy. It's close. Maybe part of it is the bed is too small.  See comment above.

I am tired of cleaning out this house.  I am tired of sorting through piles and stacks and bags and tossing so much stuff that I ask myself "why did she keep this" over and over.

Yesterday I opened one of those big file boxes, the kind with hanging folders   Every file in the box contained another file folder.  Every file folder was full of clippings from the newspaper or magazines of....recipes.  Hundreds, no probably thousands, of recipes. Pies. Cakes. Soups. Cookies. Beef. Pork. Casseroles. Breads. Salads. Stacks of them paper clipped together and put into the folders. Handwritten notes...Try this!  Use for Thanksgiving.  Make this for Christmas.  Every one of them went into the trash bag. Even if I baked a pie a day for the rest of my life I would still have recipes for pies left.  You have to remember that I have already pitched thousands of clippings of recipes over the past three months...stuffed in a basket by the stove. Stacked on the counter. Stuffed in recipe books. Shoved in the basement cabinet in the laundry room. All in the trash.

Checkbook registers for 20 years.

Notebooks listing expenses, but such detailed ones such as each and every item purchased at Buehlers..and K-Mart...and Sears...and JCPenney.  Every meal eaten on the trip to New Orleans in 1980, the price, the total bill, and the tip (Dad did not tip very well, less than 10%).  Every sales slip and credit card slip for that trip.  Twenty brochures and stacks of postcards from that trip. All shoved in a bag, shoved behind the dresser in the front bedroom.

Obituaries clipped from the paper.  Weddings.  Engagements.  Events.  Some of the people I knew.  Some I recognized the names.  Most I couldn't figure out any connection at all to Mom or Dad.

Bags and bags and more bags of used pantry hose.  Unopened packages of panty hose. Then more bags of used panty hose.

After we started to gather them in one location, tubs and tubs of plastic candle rings and flowers and candles. Every season.  Every holiday. Every color.  Every type of flower.

57 pairs of gloves shoved in one small drawer.

Four red raincoats in the closet along with two rods full of other coats and jackets.

Over 50 umbrellas.

Drawers and drawers or embroidered pillowcases.

Hangers full of aprons.

So many packages of sheets - all full or standard or double of whatever you want to call it.

Albums and albums and more albums of greeting cards - all organized by years.

Stacks and stacks and packages and packages of unused greeting cards, never sent, yet she always said she didn't have a card to send because she had been "storm stayed" or couldn't get out or, more recently, couldn't drive anywhere to buy one.  She had tons of cards for every occasion-never sent.

Clowns and clowns and more clowns.  Figurines.  Pictures.  Wall hangings.  Calendars.  Stuffed dolls.

Room by room.  Cabinet by cabinet. Closet by closet. Drawer by drawer. China cabinet by China cabinet.  Constant purging.  Pitching. Storing in a tub for the auction.  Trash bags to the dumpster.

Yesterday we organized the upstairs.  I checked every drawer, every closet, every cabinet, under every bed.  We stacked tubs and boxes.  I swept the carpets in every room.  I had to dump the canister twice in the process because it was so full.

But through the night I kept thinking...the downstairs.  What have I not gone through yet.  Which corners still need attention.  What about the china cabinet next to the dryer? What about the shelves above the sewing machine?  There are just two more days until we give the keys to the auctioneer! How can I go through everything else?

I can't. I'm done.  Even though there have been treasures found among the trash, even though memories have surfaced that have brought smiles to my face, even though we have had some good laughs and lots of family time with the kids, I am done.  No more. I don't want to sort through any more boxes, open more drawers, or try to determine why yet another water stained purse was kept.

I am finished.  I need some sleep.  I want to go home.

He Truly Is My Best Friend

I was thinking about this yesterday as we were riding in the back of Clay's truck, finding stores that sold boats and other outdoor and recreational equipment, and this guy reaches across the seat to take my hand.

He really is my best friend.  And I really do love him with all my heart.

On August 7 we will celebrate 41 years of marriage plus there was a year before that when we dated briefly and became engaged.  In all of that time he has stood by my side through everything that life has thrown at us.

Remodeling the farmhouse we have lived in for 41 years. New siding.  New roof.  New sunroom. Paint everywhere inside.  New ceiling in the kitchen/dining room.  New bathroom.  New cooktop.  New carpets several times.  New furniture.

Adding a sidewalk and patio to the back of the house, lugging stones, setting up the hottub.

Landscaping times.  Transplanting flowers and shrubs.  Trimming bushes.  Taking down fences.  Painting outbuildings.

Three pregnancies.  The first one was devastating and ended in a miscarriage, but if we had had that baby, we might not have had Megan or Hilary.  They are both so special that I can't imagine life without either of them.

Job changes.  For him - real estate.  Insurance adjusting.  Delivering mail.  Coaching basketball.  Farming.  For me - West Central.  Purdue.  Ivy Tech. Finally retirement.

Raising two daughters and sending them off, first to college, then to new homes of their own to build their own families. Walking them down the aisle to say their marriage vows and promise to love their husbands as much as their mother loves their dad.

Being the favorite Papaw - the best one ever.  He has captured the hearts of Landon, Tessa, Cooper, and Owen, and I am sure that Lynnlee will have him wrapped around her little finger also.  He is always willing to babysit anytime, anywhere.  He will be at every event he can, just like he was for their mommas.

Death of parents - this is where the tough parts come in.  Especially now.  Even though the house at his folks still needs a lot of attention, he has never once hesitated to help me with cleaning out the house in Wooster.  He goes through areas that are tough for me to handle.  He has hauled trash to the dumpster or to the garage. He has lugged boxes of books up the stairs and to the bookstore.  He has loaded 100+ bags of clothes into the Escape to take to Goodwill. He has picked up dozens of boxes at Buehlers.  He has worked with Blaine and Matt to clean out the storage barn and the attic and the garage.  But he never complains and he never hesitates or argues when we load the car to make yet another trip to Wooster.

And I cry.  And I yell.  And I get mad at Mom for all of the clutter. It didn't have to be that way.  I am frustrated because this will be the fifth week that we have been in Wooster since the funeral in late May.  I am tired of cleaning and sorting and deciding what to keep and what to throw away and what to keep for the auction and what to donate.  Summer is slipping by me so quickly and I haven't even enjoyed much of it or my flowers or my sunroom or my hottub or going to a movie.  All I have done is pack, drive five hours, work for 6-7 days, drive back, unpack and wash clothes, catch up for a couple of days at home, then do it all again.

But Gary is there with me.  He is ready with a hug. He will squeeze my hand.  He will pat my shoulder.  He will insist that we go for ice cream at Hartlzers (what a hardship THAT is!).  He will make me stop cleaning out a closet to rest.  He will bring me a drink of iced tea.  He is there.  With me.  All the time.  And that makes all the difference.

Yes, he is truly my best friend.  My partner in life.  My husband. And I love him with all my heart.

Counting My Blessings

As I drove the Escape back from Wooster yesterday, I listened to both Sirius XM (60s and 70s music) and the two new CDs I bought a couple of weeks ago at The Ball Brothers concert in Kentland.  One of the songs from one CD is called 'Count Your Blessings' and it isn't a version with which I was familiar.  I have listened to Chad sing this song several times, and yesterday I really listened to the words.

This past week Gary, Megan and Matt, Hilary and Blaine, and the four kids spent the week in Wooster, cleaning out the house---again.  Actually this was the fourth time for Gary, Cooper, and me, the third for Megan and Matt, and the second for Hilary's family.  Greta was there for most of the week also.  While we made significant progress since we had the dumpster and a U-Haul, plus the additional manpower to clean out the attic and do some of the heavier lifting, there were moments when the emotions ran wild and either Greta or I or both of us just burst into tears.

Why?  Frustration. Being overwhelmed.  Sometimes, for me anyway, anger.  Anger at Mom.  Keeping insurance policies that my grandparents had on the farm in Westville from the 1940s?  All of the stacks of clippings of recipes and recipes and more recipes?  Frozen items marked from 1978?  Yet she claimed that she used everything that was in the house and nothing could be gotten rid of because it was all important and she needed it.  She used it. All of it.  We found the beautiful cedar chest on legs that NO ONE knew she had, yet she would claim, if she were here, that she used it all the time.  It was buried under bags of used pantyhose and more bags of candle rings for every season and in every color and magazines from the 60s and couldn't have even seen the light of day for many years, let alone have been used for anything except storage of old clothes that mean absolutely nothing to anyone.  I stood in the middle bedroom and before I knew what was happening, tears were streaming down my face and I was sobbing, so mad at her.  Here we were, all at the house, all of us (except the kids) going through piles and piles and stacks and stacks of worthless junk to pitch in the dumpster.  Spending all of that time and energy pitching things that should never have been saved in the first place.  So I was angry at her.  And I am still angry at her.

But on the drive back yesterday as I was listening to Chad sing "Count Your Blessings," I had to shift my way of thinking.  Going back to the OBS I need to complete this week, how I react to things and store things in my Thought Closet is my choice.  And I need to focus more on my blessings than my anger at Mom.

As Greta and I have gone through drawers and cabinets and closets, bit by bit, we have found treasures that we didn't realize we had.  We were sent down many Memory Lanes, recalling Rose making dresses for us, modeling in a fashion show with her, and seeing our picture in the Sunday edition of the Youngstown Vindicator.  The Damascus Bi-Centennial.  The player piano in the basement.  The little white rocking chair from The Little Brown House.  Many happy memories of our childhood that only Greta and I can share---memories before we were uprooted and moved to Indiana.  Memories from when Mom still loved us and before the verbal and physical abuse started.

My husband.  Through the last few months he has been supportive.  He has worked hard to clean out areas of the basement.  He has sifted through tools and equipment in the little barn and in the garage.  He has called Waste Management, Culligan, the lawn guy, U-Haul---anything we need he will do.  He has never once complained about yet another trip to Wooster or how long we stay.  He tries his best to hold me close and help me rest at night, gives me hugs when I need them, and dries my tears when I am sobbing. He drove the U-Haul back yesterday even though he really didn't want to do that. Actually he had no choice, but I know he didn't want to. 

Our daughters.  They have uprooted their families and spent days in close quarters with everyone else, making do with the accommodations and fixing meals, to help us with the clean out process.  They have also found treasures, reminders, memories along the way.  I also hope they have learned a little more about their heritage from my side of the family in the process.

Our sons-in-law.  Not sure what Gary would have done without Blaine and Matt (and Landon). Pulling things out of the attic. Emptying the freezers.  Going through the little barn and the workbench.  Helping with anything and everything that we needed.  I am so glad that Dad met both of them and approved of their addition to our family. I love them both more than they know.

My parents.  Yes.  My parents.  I have to try  to focus on the good rather than the last few years of bad memories.  We always had a nice house.  We never went without anything.  We had food on the table.  Our clothes were clean. We had opportunities for extra curricular activities in high school and were never told that we couldn't participate in something (except for me---I was told no to wanting to play in the band). Greta and I both had post-high school educational opportunities. We attended church, often on our own, but we did attend church services and were active in the youth group when we were in school. Somehow in there we have good family values even though Mom was not the best mother. 

As much as I have been crying and mad and frustrated, I really do need to remember my blessings.  Along with being thankful for my family and their support, I am also blessed that I was able to retire when I did so that I have the time to spend in Wooster now.  I couldn't do much before, but I can take care of the house now.  I don't have to return to classes in the fall, so my calendar is somewhat clear as far as week-long trips to Wooster.  We also have the means financially to be able to rent a U-Haul and buy the gas for the trips and all of the meals we have eaten in restaurants lately.    Yes, I am blessed.  Yes, I need to remember to count my blessings. 

Thanks for the song, Chad and The Ball Brothers.  Sometimes I just need that reminder.