Who'll give me 5 dolla, 5 dolla....going once, going twice, SOLD!

My focus the last few months has been cleaning out Mom and Dad's house, sorting through the trash and separating out the treasures, and preparing for the auction.  Monumental task, for sure.

Let's see...starting in December 2016 when Gary and I were in Wooster for Mom's heart valve replacement surgery....

Every three weeks or so we made the trip to Wooster from December until the end of May when Mom died. Each trip was about 5-6 days, including a weekend so we could fill the trash cans to put out for Monday's pick up, then re-fill them again for Brian and Melanie to put out the next week.  That routine continued with a trip over, several days there, then the trip home.  During that time we visited with Mom at either the hospital or Woodlawn or Chapel Hill.  We sifted through some of the obvious things...the pile of food on the floor in the corner of the kitchen.  The refrigerator.  The piles of newspapers and magazines piled around the Ugly Chair.  The piles of papers and empty tissue boxes around her chair at the dining room table.  The counter tops in the kitchen.  

In early January she took a turn for the worst, and ALL of us went to Wooster, prepared for a funeral.  She bounced back, recovered, and returned to the rehab center.

In February we moved her to Chapel Hill, her new home.

In March we took her to a doctor's appointment and Dr. Sardar set monthly goals for her.

In April she had fallen and the appointment with Dr. Sardar was more difficult in transportation plus we could see that she was failing and just didn't understand his recommendations.

In May she was unresponsive again and taken to the hospital where she died after we saw her on Mother's Day weekend.

Each time we visited we cleaned out more things.  Little by little.  

Unfortunately the dents were just that..little.

After her death the big clean out happened, and it took a toll on our summer time.

Total stats:

Five weeks in Wooster for Gary and Beth

Three weeks in Wooster for Megan and Matt

Four weeks in Wooster for Cooper

Two weeks in Wooster for Hilary, Blaine, and the kids

130+ bags of clothes to Goodwill, Faith Christian, and a group connected to Greta's church for a clothing drive

Two dumpsters filled with food from freezers, food from the fruit cellar, trash, trash, and more trash plus leftovers from the auction

Numerous boxes of books taken to Books in Stock for re-sale

18 boxes of books donated to Rotary/Kiwanis for their book sale fundraiser

Bags of newspapers and magazines taken to the recycling center behind Buehlers for donation

4 boxes of fabric donated to Mary O. for Quilts of Valor and kids quilts for the EMTs during emergencies

Depends donated to Blaine's grandmother

A U-Haul loaded with items for Pulaski, Pyrmont, and Frankfort

A covered trailer loaded with items for Pulaski, Pyrmont, and Frankfort

Our Escape plus Blaine's truck plus Matt's SUV loaded with items for Pulaski, Pyrmont, and Frankfort 

The man behind the meat counter at Buehlers knew us as "Melanie's friends, the Simmonses" who needed boxes, boxes, and more boxes.  After a while we didn't even have to ask.  He just knew what we were after and filled up our cart.

As we sorted through items, there was always the thought that 'maybe somebody will want this and buy this at the auction.'  As I stood and looked at the boxes and boxes of things lined up in rows in the back yard, along the side of the house next to Melanie's and in the tent next to Kurt's side yard, I wondered why we didn't pitch more.

As I listened to Mark ask for bids, particularly on the downstairs furniture, and sell Dad's recliner for just $1 and the treadmill for just $1, I became very sad.  

Later, when it was all over, Hilary told me to look in the back yard and see what we needed to clean up the next day. I was shocked at what was left.  Boxes and boxes of items in somewhat organized piles...everywhere.  Bidders had bought boxes for low amounts and picked through for the items they wanted...and left the rest.

Clown pictures.

Dishes.

Glass plates.

Pitchers.

Books.

Placemats.

Dad's collection of shot glasses.

Things I thought people would want to bid on and see as treasures for themselves....no interest at all.   Left behind in the yard.

Now not everything was like that.   

Marleen bought the four lamps to use in her house and in her sister's house.

Melanie bought the corner china cabinet from the bottom of the stairs which fits perfectly in her dining room.

A couple from Mansfield bought the treadle sewing machine to refurbish to send to Haiti so women can learn to sew.  They also purchased nearly all of the bedroom furniture and had a good reason (I assume) for doing so.

Some of the 'treasures' made their way into the baskets of Amish women to be re-sold in antique or collectibles stores in Amish country.

The instuments were treasures and brought higher bids.  Some of the jewelry did the same.

Dad's '41 Chevy brought $7000 which was much more than he had paid for it.

And the house was sold for our reserve amount to a young mother, her boyfriend, and her two children.

But the entire process left me with a different perspective of auctions.  I had been to several auctions; in fact, I have bought several items at auctions.  In recent years, however, I didn't need any particular items, had no place to put them, and no time to attend a Saturday event since I spent most Saturdays through the years either at games (when Gary was coaching) or grading (when I was teaching at Ivy Tech) or watching grandchildren.

If someone doesn't want the item, there will be no bids.  

What someone deems a treasure, others may think of as trash.

I often thought on Thursday during the auction and on Friday and Saturday as we were cleaning up the yard and sifting through the boxes once again, what would Mom have thought about this?  She thought everything in her house was SO important. We were never to touch any of it.  She thought people were peering in her windows to see what she had and would break in to steal her china or her stereo or one of the clown pictures.  What would she say to know that one set of china was left in the backyard, unsold?  No one wanted it.  How would she feel if she knew that Gary tossed many of her clown pictures in the dumpster? No one wanted them.  The stereo in the living room is still there.  No one wanted to buy it.  

Really this blog entry is about two things.  One is the time and energy we spent since December in Wooster, cleaning out everythng in the house and preparing for the sale of the chattel (I still do NOT like that word) and the property.  The other is about my perception of auctions and the value we place on things.

What have I learned?  

I need to clean out drawers, cabinets, and closets of unwanted, unused items and just get rid of them. 

When I think about gifts for others, I may just go with gift cards from now on since items I think might be useful or helpful or cute or interesting...may not be for the recipient and just sit on a shelf or in the box, never to be used.  Waste of money!

Spending time with family and friends is more important than focusing on material things.  Mom's things were the most important to her.  She yelled that at Dad.  She said that to us.  She needed her house, her things, her possessions.  Those were her life.  Not us.

As I pulled items still in boxes off the shelf, took clothes still with tags off hangers, and packed up books that had never been read, I thought about how much emphasis she had placed on having all of those. But she never wanted to be with us.  She never wanted to see the grandchildren or great-granchildren.  All of those important things to her.... many of them were placed in trashbags and taken to Goodwill, in boxes to take to Books in Stock, in boxes to place in the yard for people to pick through and leave to eventually be tossed in the dumpster.

Yes, it was really worth it, wasn't it, Mom? All pf the important, precious items that were worthless to others and tossed in the dumpster.  You could have spent time with Dad, going to festivals, traveling to Indiana, making memories instead of focusing so much on one more vase or another piece of glass or 6 sets of china that no one wanted.

Who'll give me 5 dolla, 5 dolla?  How about 4?  3?  Anyone give me a dolla for this box of treasures?  No one?  Let's move on.

In the beginning....

While Gary was in Winamac this morning at Dobson's for an oil change in the Escape, I read Day 3 and found myself deep in the first chapters of Genesis.

At first I thought...here we go again with the beginning of the Bible and the story of creation. But as I read and studied along with Angela's prompts, I found myself noticing words and meanings that I hadn't before.

The animals, vegetation, creatures, livestock...all created according to THEIR kind.  But  when God created man, He created him in his own image after his own likeness.

On that one verse, Genesis 1:26, two main points are made.  First, man is like God and man represents God.

It should be reflected in our conduct.  How we honor those around us.  How we protect ourselves and others from evil.

There it is...evil.  The snake.  The serpent.  The tempter.

And we all know that story.  But there is more.

Even though man was separated from the presence of God and could only experience Him from a distance since the perfect Garden of Eden was closed permanently.

Even though life without pain was lost and the certainty of pain and earth would be with all creation.

Even though man's innocent nature was replaced by a sinful nature.

And even though perfect relationship was turned to shame and nothing would ever be the same....

God promises to undo all that Satan has wrought on mankind.

He promises a victorious redeemer.

On Adam and Eve's worst day, the day they were banished from the Garden, our God of hope promised His best day (as quoted by Angela's minister).

Jesus Christ is our Redeemer.

You might remember that I said I like Bible study, that I enjoy delving into scripture.  One thing Angela said in Day 2 was that she pushed hard into research about the word 'redeemed' and it was so much fun.  That is the way I am.  I used to tell my students that I LOVED the research part of writing a paper.  (I didn't tell them I didn't like the actual writing part of it though.) But research. Looking for information that will shed light on a topic. On a word. On a concept.  What can be a better way to learn and grow.  Angela hit it on the head there for me.

And Bible study is what Day 3 was about.  Reading the first books of Genesis, taking another look at the Creation Story, and ending with reading Psalm 5 and 6 and prayer again.

Yes, I like this study.  I really do.

Redeemed #1

I was impressed by Angela Thomas-Pharr when she spoke at Women of Joy a few weekends ago.  I don't think I have heard her before; if I had, the impact wasn't as great as it was during this event.

When we returned home, I checked her out online and found the book Redeemed.  It is a Bible study book and it looked interesting so I ordered it. I  know...one more Bible study book to add to my collection.

It was delivered last week while we were in Ohio for the auction but Junior had put it in the car for safe-keeping until we were home again. I opened the package that day, but I didn't really look at it until a few days later.  I was intrigued.

Why?  Because I really like studying the Bible.  I have been participating in the Online Bible Studies from Proverbs 31 Ministries for several years and I finally got myself into the groove to complete them.  A few friends from the studies and I have formed our own FB group to dig a little deeper into the discussion. A recent study on a book written by Lysa Terkeurst was the one I enjoyed the most mainly because there was more scripture study than in some of the others.  I like that.  I enjoy delving deeper into the word of God and learning more of what He said rather than just interpretations of the verses.

When the new Proverbs 31 study was introduced, of course I ordered the book and signed up.  I actually began to read it on the drive to Wooster last week. But one thing I noticed was this.  While the author is good and the message is valid, it seemed to be a re-hashing of the same things that we had studied in recent books.  We are good people.  We have value.  We are daughters of God.  The style of this author was similar to many of the others, other than Lysa.

Yesterday I opened Redeemed and  I liked what I saw.  Angie has focused on the Psalms and prayer.  The 40-day study is one that will take the reader through the Psalms and focus on the power of prayer, hoping that the habit of daily prayer will be so powerful that it becomes just that...a habit.  Angie emphasizes in the intro that daily participation is a must, that while there may be screw-ups, we need to be focused on the task at hand.  Scripture reading and prayer.  One example that I liked was the challenge she put to a group of girls at a summer camp.  They met regularly for prayer.  She set a kitchen timer and increased the time each session, starting with 5 minutes.  I used a similar technique with journal writing in my English classes. Daily writing but we started with small amounts of time and soon the students were pouring their hearts out on paper and groaning when time was up.

I went to bed early last night.  I read the intro again and I read Day 1. A focus in the introduction is our tendency to say "I can't" and have a million and one reasons why.  None of them are really valid...because when we 'can't' we often forget that "God can."

I read Psalm 1 and Psalm 2 aloud.  I wrote a prayer, which is hard for me to do.  I may just jot down things that I need to include in my prayer so I don't forget.  But I do know that after the study of Day1, I felt so relaxed that I drifted off to sleep very easily, I didn't stay awake on one of my many trips to the bathroom (I had drunk a lot of tea yesterday - sorry if that is TMI), and I awoke feeling more refreshed than I had in a long time.

Connection?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  But I like to think that when I say "I can't sleep,"  God is really saying "Yes you can.  Turn your problems over to me and rest."

I like that!

It Didn't Work

I was trying so hard, probably too hard, to keep my blood pressure under control before the appointment this morning.

Relax, Beth.  Relax.  Think about other things.  Think about being with Cooper, Tessa, and Owen this afternoon and Landon later.  Think about the new baby.  Put a smile on your face.

I tried.  I really did.  

But it didn't work.

I walked into the nurse's office and when she first pumped up the cuff on my right arm, she frowned, pulled it off, and said 'Let's try the other one because it was a little high.'  

The left arm wasn't much better.  Still 155/110.

I sighed. I panicked.  Then we chatted about the changes in the pharmacy since Fagen's will be no more in Francesville.  CVS bought them, along with several other stores in northwest Indiana, and announced that several of the smaller sites would be closed in mid-September, including our local one.  Then we chatted a bit about her attending Ivy Tech in Logansport.  I felt myself relax.  

I asked if she could check it one more time.  She did.  140/90.  Better.  I know part of it I do to myself.  By the time we met Hilary, Blaine, and the kids for lunch, it was probably back to normal once again.  But I wasn't in the doctor's office anymore.

Later this afternoon my cell phone rang with a call from the cardiologist.  He is changing my medication, upping the dosage of one of the pills I take.

Earlier this spring I was gung ho on a new WOE, low carb/high fat.  The friends on Dotti's who were following this plan boasted that they were doing so well with the new healthy eating lifestyle that their BP meds were being reduced plus other meds were changing and they felt so much better.  That WOE was not for me---I missed the fruit and yogurt in the mornings and I can eat only so much bacon and eggs. But it makes me upset that the opposite is happening for me - increasing medication.  Boo.

I know what has happened.  And no.  I am not a doctor.  :)  

Too much food and not enough of the right kinds.  Eating out so much will do that.  Not making good choices will do that.  Stress eating will do that.  All of that is my fault.  I fell off the wagon with a thud and am now paying for it.

Not enough walking.  We have been super busy with cleaning out the house, preparing for the auction, staying with the kids, and some days I see my steps goal met. More often, though, the steps just aren't there because...well, it is hard to walk much when standing in a room and sorting through bags of pantyhose and 50 umbrellas and 130 bags of clothes to take to Goodwill. That's what I did most of the summer.

Sleep?  What is that?  Trying to sleep in a double bed is hard when one is used to queen size.  Sleeping on an airbed which loses air slowly is difficult too.  Listening for a child who may awaken in the middle of the night interrupts one's sleep, especially when we are in a strange house and we are responsible for said child.  One week I counted sleeping in 5 different beds in one week in 5 different places. I am teased often about falling asleep in the car, but I just can't help it.  I wake up in the middle of the night with my mind racing or thinking of things I need to do or trying to remember what is happening throughout the week and sleep eludes me.  But put me in a moving car and I am out like a light.

Food. Sleep. Movement.  Those three things, plus peace of mind, will help me lower my BP.  

I still will pick up the new dosage of meds tomorrow and start those.  I will work hard on the other three things.  Maybe when I return to the doctor in February there will be great improvement and I can go back to my original list of medications.  

Whatever I have been doing hasn't been working.  Time to take control and MAKE it work for me, right?

White Coat Syndrome

Why is it that when I am going to the doctor and I know that my blood pressure will be checked, I panic and the BP shoots up?

It doesn't happen ALL of the time, just when I have a lot of stress or I am afraid that something is wrong.

Then the tension sets in and I am a lost cause.

A few weeks ago I went to see the cardiologist.  It was an appointment that had to be postponed several times due to Mom's death, then the multiple trips to Ohio.  Nothing seemed to work out in scheduling.

As we were driving down 39 to Delphi that morning, I could feel myself tense.  I was beginning to panic.

Why?  I was afraid I would need to have an EKG.  Silly, I know, because I have had numerous EKGs and I have survived all of them with no problem.  Just the idea of the pads and the wires and relaxing and hearing the sound and pulling off the pads again...ugh.

Then the worst thing is that I was afraid he would ask for another echocardiogram.  I have had two of those and I hated each one.  They were long, uncomfortable, awkward, difficult....I just hated them.  I haven't had one for a while, so I was scared that he would say another one was needed.

There was also the exhaustion from cleaning out Mom's house, making the trips back and forth, and being at home but not really being here at home plus the worry about the auctionl

So on the drive there, I felt myself not only become tense, but my chest began to hurt.  Now what was I to do?

On the drive to the hospital where Dr. O's office is located there was road construction, so I needed to take a cut through the country.  It was fine, but panic set in because I was afraid I would be late.

I wasn't.  But I was nervous as I checked in, nervous as I sat in the waiting room, nervous when I talked to the nurse, even more nervous when I stepped on the scales, and finally out of sight nervous to the point of bursting into tears when that BP cuff made its way onto my arm.

155/100   Too high.

Back to the doctor's office I go tomorrow morning.  An appointment with the nurse for a BP check.

I am trying to remain calm.  The peace of mind I have felt the last two days should indicate that my BP will be in the normal range, right?

But I am starting to panic, starting to be scared.   What if it is still high?  What if I need to take more medication?  What will I do?

Oh my...calm down.  It will be fine.  Just imagine that going to Dr. Page's office where no BP is ever taken. Relax. It will be fine....repeat.  Repeat... Repeat....

Drawing Fire

I mentioned the front of the book about Sebring, Ohio, but I also mentioned the final pages of the book as well.

Rosemary Woods.

Name ring a bell?  

Probably not, yet you might remember her after a quick explanation.

Fiercely loyal to Nixon, Woods claimed responsibility in a 1974 grand jury testimony for inadvertently erasing up to five minutes of the 18 ¹⁄₂ minute gap in a June 20, 1972, audio tape. Her demonstration of how this might have occurred — which depended upon her stretching to simultaneously press controls several feet apart (what the press dubbed the "Rose Mary Stretch"^[5]) — was met with skepticism from those who believed the erasures, from whatever source, to be deliberate. The contents of the gap remain a mystery.<sup>[6]

This reference may not trigger a memory either, unless one was alive in 1974 and remembers one word associated with Richard Nixon--Watergate.

Rosemary Woods was born and raised in Sebring, Ohio.  She graduated from Sebring McKinley High School and worked at the pottery.  After her fiance was killed in World War II, she left Sebring to travel to the nation's capitol and eventually became the secretary to Richard Nixon.  She and First Lady Patricia Nixon were close, and Rosemary often stayed at the White House in the family quarters as a family friend. 

The last page of the book was dedicated to one of the more famous residents of Sebring, Rosemary Woods.




 

Once again there was a notation from Dad, which is also visible in the picture - "Norm's neighbor growing up."

I remember when Nixon was President and happened to appear on television, occasionally Dad would notice Rosemary in the background.  He would say, "Hey!  There's my neighbor, Rose!" and be proud that someone HE knew actually knew and worked for the President of the United States.  Later during Watergate and the subsequent Grand Jury testimony, Dad never once doubted that Rosemary was telling the truth.  He didn't think the Rosemary he had known and grown up with would resort to illegal or unethical behaviors.

Just a tidbit of information.  I never knew what happened to her until I read in a bit of biographical information that she had returned to her home and passed away while a resident of McCrea Manor in Alliance.

Rosemany Woods.  A bit of history. And now you know it too!</sup> 

Drawing Blood

One of the things I miss about Dad is the stories that he told.  He had stories for everything and for every time in his life, from growing up on Indiana Avenue in Sebring, Ohio, to times at gas engine shows or Cruise Ins later in his life.

I found a book of images from Sebring in the stacks of things we sorted through at the house.  Since I have big problems just tossing things I don't want in the trash or the dumpster, things that I think might have value to someone, I held onto the book, and today I contacted the Sebring Historical Society about a possible donation.  

 

As I flipped through the book, I found scraps of paper inserted at various spots with notations of page numbers, names of people either in the pictures or mentioned in the narratives, or additional information that he added.

Two pages stood out to me, ironically at the very beginning and at the very end.  

There was a picture at the front of four or five people who were the first graduates from the Ohio Avenue School in 1904.  One of those was a lady whose last name was Beggs.  On the scrap of paper was written a note about this particular graduate.

 

Miss Beggs was Dad's first grade teacher.  During a writing assignment, Dad was drawing circles on his paper instead of practicing whatever letters had been assigned.  She discovered his inattention to the assignment and rapped his fingers with a ruler, to the point of drawing blood.  This angered Dad, even at the age of 6, and he retaliated by throwing an ink well at her.  The last sentence on the slip of paper was this:  "I was sent home."

Dad delighted in sharing that story with us several times over the years.  He had several experiences with teachers who were mean to him, who said unkind things to him, or who affected him by their conversations about him to others, which he overheard.

If this had happened in today's classroom, the parents would probably call the principal and complain, there would be a meeting with the teacher, and the teacher would be reprimanded for punishing a student in this manner, after which she would promise that it would never happen again.

I can imagine the scene in 1928, though.  The little curly haired boy would have trudged home, not sure why he was punished, nursing his hurt and bleeding fingers.  He would explain to his mother as she was caring for his younger brother and maybe the twin babies who had made their appearance.  She would sigh and tell him not to let his attention wander again, to do as he was told, and not to get into trouble again.  She probably also wondered in the back of her mind if this little guy was going to be a perpetual trouble maker at school...and sigh again.

Little did she know that he would be the only one of her children to graduate from high school. Little did she know that he would take classes to expand his knowledge and that he listened and learned every chance he had.  Little did she know that he was a huge influence on his daughters and his granddaughters where education was concerned, and that he encouraged them to learn as much as they could and put their knowledge to good use.

That little boy may have had a rough day at the beginning of first grade and his knuckles may be been a little bruised, but he was one of the smartest man I have ever known. 

So there, Miss Beggs!

First Sigh of Relief

We are home. 

I slept late.

I feel relaxed. 

The auction is over.

The house is nearly empty.

The sale papers are signed.

Just waiting for closing.

Just waiting to sell the acre on Beloit-Snodes Road.

Honestly. I feel like a weight has lifted from my entire body.  When I walked in the house at 1330 Barnes Drive on Tuesday evening, it hit me just how much stuff was left.  As Mark the Auctioneer said, it looked like a bomb had gone off.

When we returned on Thursday afternoon, the 'bomb' had exploded in the back yard, the side yard under the tent, the front yard where we sat like hillbillies on the living room couch, and in the drive.

But eventually the buyers came and the items made their way to their vehicles to be taken to their new homes.

And the 41 Chevy went to Millersburg.

And the house will have two little girls living in it.

Even the clean up on Friday, while more massive than I expected, wasn't as bad when Kylie and her dad and the man with the blue t-shirt helped haul things up the hill and toss them into the dumpster. Once I  accepted the 'no one will want this' attitude and pitched items into the dumpster myself, more of the weight disappeared from my shoulders.

No tears as we left the house.  In fact, I didn't even think about that.

No tears as we were driving home.  In fact, I didn't even think about that then either.

No tears now, as I sit in my house and enjoy the feeling of relief that it is all nearly over.

Yes, I think I will be able to shut the door on that part of my life and move on.  Memories will sustain us.  No one can take those away.

And when I look at what lies ahead, I have to smile. And be excited!

I walked into Landon's room last night and he was sitting in Grandpa Norm's chair. Grandpa Norm's light was on.  He was making a card for a friend at Grandpa Norm's drafting table.  And he smiled at me and told me he loved me and he was glad I was home.

I went downstairs and Tessa ran to me and hugged me and told me she was glad I was home and she loved me.  

And Owen reached out his BBQ covered hands to give me a hug and smiled his toothy grin and leaned over to give me kisses and i know he loves me too.

That is what is important to me right now.  Those three, the little red-headed boy who lives down the road from them, and his little sister who will be born on October 12.

Oh..and their parents.  The best daughters I could ever hope for and a husband that has been my support and my rock through all of the process.

Ready to move on to the wonderful, fun, and happy days ahead. And breathe more sighs of relief.

The End of an Era

Another step...

Another drive across the states...

Another span of time spent in Wooster....

This time marks the end of an era.

The auction is Thursday.


1330 Barnes Drive

Soon this address will belong to someone not named Henderson or Siemens or Smith.
 
So why is this a stuggle?  I never lived in the house.   It should be easy to walk away from it, right?  I have no memories of 'my room' or 'the day of my wedding' or 'playing on the swings on the back yard' or 'getting on and off the bus in front of the house' or 'learning to drive' in this house or even this community.

But I do have memories of bringing Gary here, of bringing the girls to visit their grandparents.  I can still see Dad sitting in the Ugly Chair or in his chair back in the corner in the dining room.  Or Dad sitting in the recliner at the bottom of the stairs, watching tv.  I can still see Dad in the backyard with the girls, sitting on the bench and his standing by his horse on the engine with Hilary or standing in the garage with Megan and Hilary and all three of them wearing Navy shirts.  I can see him puttering around in the garage or walking around in the backyard, trimming and pruning and fussing around his raspberry bushes.

The things.  As we spent the better portion of the summer sifting through all of the 'stuff' that Mom had saved, we pitched so much, bagged up clothes for Goodwill, put bags and bags of trash in the dumpster, and looked at some items and just wondered 'why?'.  But there were some memories jarred and tears trickling down our cheeks plus good times from our childhood remembered.  We found our great-grandparents' marriage license and their deed to the farm, all of Mom's report cards, pictures of Grandpa that we didn't know existed, and many other treasures.

The bottom line is, and the common thread through everything I have written, is one word.  Memories.  We have those.  Nothing can take them away.  But also nothing can bring back that time period. It's gone.

As I talked to Kathy last night, as I have read emails and messages from friends, and as I have discussed this over and over with my patient husband, I know these things to be true.

A nice family will buy the house and begin their own set of memories there.  Other than the weeks when the kids were with us in the summer, there hasn't been fun, laughter, growth, or energy in the house for over 10 years.  The house will be made into a home for a wonderful family to enjoy, to live in, to celebrate.

The chattel.  (and I don't like that word at all)  All of it is just things.  Some of it will be hard to see auctioned to the highest bidder, but I have to remember that that bidder may want a piece of crystal or a certain bowl or the desk or a bed to use in his/her home and make memories with it.  Much better than my having it and storing it in a tub in the Quonset.  I bought the Jenny Lind bed in Megan's old room at an auction and we have used it for many years. Many memories - tucking the girls in at night.  Calming their fears during thunderstorms.  Now the grandkids sleeping in that bed.  Our own memories.

Yes it will be hard.  But I know that Gary will be with me every step of the way, just as he has been through the summer and through the cleaning out process.  I know that Hilary will be there for moral support and to keep me from crying too much.  I know that Megan will be thinking of me even though she can't be with us.  I know that my cousins will be joining us and possibly bidding on some items to keep Dad and Mom close to their hearts too.

Most of all I know that I have God walking beside me and keeping me calm as I take another step toward the finish line, then eventually closing the estate, the end of an era. 

1330 Barnes Drive will be the address of another family.  One that will create their own set of memories. 

And it will be ok.

 

365 Days

When I retired, the whole world of opportunities expanded as to what to do with my time.

Taking care of Agnes was a priority, for sure.  She was suffering from bladder cancer, was lonely after Leo died, and needed someone to be with her, run errands, be sure she was eating, and take care of her laundry.

Helping Gary with harvest was another priority.  I couldn't even remember the last time I had ridden in the combine with him on a fall day with sunshine and clouds overhead.  Being a farmers wife sounded like a good idea.

The kiddos!  More time with them, but also the ability to help out their moms when they needed someone to stay during appointments or a school activity or some other responsibility which would be easier without extra children.  Plus there would be many opportunities to make memories with the kids on their own.

But the other thing I wanted to do was something creative, other than quilting or knitting.

I like to write,  I am not very good at it, but I try.  I am better with proofreading, offering suggestions as to how to improve, and polishing up already written work.  But it was worth a shot.  I had plenty of topics.  Now to put them into words.

 A year later I have written over 100 posts about a variety of topics.  I have had readers, but the numbers are low.  In a year's time only one response has appeared, and that was from Hilary and early in my plunge into composition.

Does that  bother me?  A little.  But the real reason I am writing is for me.

And so it goes.  The topics will pop into my head.  I will write.  Hopefully someone will read.

It was bound to happen...

First thought: I probably should call Mom and tell her that Owen's final visit with his birth father was today and that the birth father didn't show up so the adoption process will start soon.

Second thought: now why would I want to do that? She won't care and will start talking about something she heard on the news.

Third thought: oh wait.  Moot point,  She is dead.

Now some people have told me that I will go to the phone to call her and forget. I nodded, but I knew that would never happen because I don't make it a habit to call Mom about anything.  Why should I?  She has told us repeatedly that she doesn't care about us or what happens to us.  Gary and I can both repeat the lines.

Mom: " Well, I would app-re-ci-ate knowing about what is happening, but it cer-tain-ly isn't ne-ces-sary to tell me anything so you don't need to tell me."

Me: so you don't want to know anything about the girls or the kids or if anyone is having another baby or anything like that?

Mom: No.  I don't want to know,  I don't care.

So we didn't tell her about Tessa.  Even though Hilary would sign her name to cards and gifts, she never asked who she was.  Later when she saw her in person, she said she just thought that Hilary and Blaine had a new dog.  A dog.  Named Tessa.  Right.

When Blaine and Hilary sent her the Christmas card with Owen's picture, Blaine called her and explained who the baby was.  She said she didn't even see a baby in Blaine's arms in one picture or the baby in the manger with Landon dressed as Joseph and Tessa as Mary in the other picture on the card.

And we did tell her about Megan and Matt's new little girl expected to arrive in October, just before Mom died.

I surprised myself.  It did happen.  But I don't think it will happen again anytime soon,

Technology - When it works, great! When it doesn't, watch out!

Everytime anyone grumbled and complained about having to use computers in the classroom, I always hit them with this. 

Q:  Do you have a washer at your house? or Do you wash your clothes at a laundromat?

A: Yes.

Comment:  Aren't you glad you don't have to wash your clothes in a stream, beat them on a rock, and hang them over a bush to dry?  Aren't you glad that technology created the washer so that we don't have to resort to beating clothes on rocks?  I am sure there were some people grumbling and complaining about those new-fangled machines and there was no way they were going to put any of their clothes in that water and let that thing in the middle swish their clothes around.

Now that sounds silly, doesn't it?

I keep thinking of that as I am struggling with technology these last few days.

Direct TV.  We upgraded our system at the State Fair. We have a new box.  We have new wireless towers.  Our upstairs tvs can now access the Direct TV stations just like our downstairs televisions can. We can stop a program, run it back, re-watch a section, record, delete a program, whatever.  Cool.

Cell phone.   In another move at the State Fair, I traded my iPhone for an Android.  I have been fussing with it for three days now, and I am not happy with it.  Even the salesperson who tried to help me at the store at the Mall could not access my email on the phone.  Finally the Fitbit did sync, but the email is still elusive unless I go through the pwrtc site.  I know that everything is different and I know that it will take some time to adapt to a new phone, but I really liked my iPhone and I am really really tempted to return the Android and switch it for a newer version of what I had.

Nook.  Now granted there has been a time period when I wasn't using the Nook, mainly because Mom's house is not Wifi friendly and I needed it to select books and download them.  But recently I read three books on the Nook and I really like using it again.  On the way home from Kansas, something happened, however, when I was charging it with the adapter and the spot in the minivan to plug it in.  There was a hot smell and the adapter was very hot to the touch.  Since then my Nook will not hold a charge.  I have charged it twice, then I have turned it completely off.  After a few days I can't turn it on because the battery is dead.  Something is wrong.

Now I love technology.  I enjoyed creating online courses. I liked teaching online.  I used Blackboard to teach my classes after I had knee surgery and when I had shingles plastered all over the right side of my face.

But I need to have devices that work. Consistently.  I didn't mention that the internet will cut out at random times, did I?  Yep.  Right in the middle of posting something here or sending an email, it will stop for about 30 seconds to a minute, then pop back on.  In the meantime, all of what I had done will be lost. 

So what to do tomorrow?

When I go into Lafayette in the afternoon, I think I may just find myself at Barnes and Noble to check on the status of the Nook.  Then I may end up at the Verizon store on Veterans Memorial Parkway where Cameron will be so that I can turn in my Android and exchange it for a new iPhone.

We shall see where the Ford Escape takes me!

What Can I Say? It Just Takes TIme.

It didn't just happen overnight.  So it stands to reason that getting 'over it' will take more than just overnight or a few days or even a few weeks.  Right?

This whole thing has been hard for me, and hard ON me. Maybe no one really understands what it has been like for me, except me.

Yes, it's my mother.  Again.  I know. You might be tired of hearing about it.  You might roll your eyes and tune me out because it is a 'here we go again' type of reaction. 

But for me, the hurt is real.  It is deep. And it will take time to heal.  Really.

Try as I may, as much as I want to, I just can't sigh and say "Ok.  I am fine now.  I am moving on.  Life is great!  I will never mention it again because I am over it.  Period.  Done. Finished."

I wish I could do that. I really do.  I wish I could just put it all out of my mind permanently and never thing about it again.

But it is hard.  It really is.

A mother is supposed to love her children.  She is supposed to care for them, to support them, to love them unconditionally, forever and ever.  But my mother wasn't like that.  

We know she didn't love us.  How?  She told us.  Maybe not in the 'I don't love you' words, but by telling us how awful we were, how stupid we were, how she never wanted us, how we lacked so many traits that would make us mature and good people.  How she didn't care if she ever saw us or talked to us.  How she always wanted to 'put us in our place' or make us pay for something that we didn't even know that we had done.  And this wasn't just as kids.  This happened to us in our adult lives, up until just a few months before she died.

So how do we shut that off and move on?  How do we close it down and now be ok?  How can we not drift to it, especially when a speaker at WOJ is talking about how we need to close the door on our past hurts and move into the present and rejoice that we are beautiful daughters of God and because God loves us, that is the most important thing (and I agree with that).   But I can't just shut down the hurt from Mom, just like that.  The bruises are still there, especially the ones from the new things that I have uncovered while cleaning out her house.

I called her to tell her that a distant relative (we think) had passed away after my cousin had contacted me about the death.  In the note I found she was upset with me because I did that.  She KNEW who was related to Dad and how dare I suggest that this person was a cousin when she had never heard of him.  That conversation then drifted to how horrible the neighbors were, how she knew that drug deals were going on in the wee hours of the morning, that there were 20 people riding in the back of a pick up and it was so noisy she couldn't get any rest, how she was afraid to walk out to the mailbox, how she had to keep the curtains drawn so they wouldn't come over and peek in the windows at her--and on and on.  So I broke into her monologue and said "Well if it is so dangerous to live there, maybe you should think about moving." In her note she was furious with me for saying that, trying to make her decisions for her.  How dare I think that just because I had a college education, that I knew everything and what gave me the right to make that decision for her!  She would show me!  She would cut me off from everything.  NO MORE CHRISTMAS CASH for me or my family!  NO MORE GIFT CARDS FOR ANYONE IN INDIANA!

Yes, I know.  She was crazy.  She was just talking.  But I found more notes that said she knew things were being stolen from the shed in the back yard and that only two relatives had the combination and she knew that we were thieves.  She was going to talk to her lawyer and have him do something about it so she wouldn't be stolen from anymore.

The notes from 1979 written across the top of her journal stating that she needed to be cautious because of her children.  They were going to destroy her. 1979.  I was trying to think of what was going on then.  That was the year Mike graduated from high school.  We had been married for three years.  The girls weren't even born yet.  And she thought we were plotting against her then.

And there was more.  More diatribes against us.  More craziness being written.  And probably more spoken to anyone who would listen.

Letters from Dad while we lived in Mt. Vernon expressing his concern about her behavior.  Responses from her to him.  Notes written by her that indicated she knew what she wanted to do but hesitated because she knew there would be consequences.  

Verbal abuse is one thing.  Physical abuse is another.  And there was that too.  Handprints left where no one could see them.  Beatings in the bathroom.  Hits across the face.  And more. Always when Dad wasn't around.  

Who cares about it now?  What does it matter today? Good questions.

But this comes from the woman who gave birth to me, the one who was my mother, the one who was supposed to love me.

She was the reason my stomach was tied up in knots every time we made the trip to Ohio for any holiday.

She was the reason I would cry from the time we pulled out of their drive until we got to at least Mansfield, sometimes as far as Upper Sandusky, and sometimes until Van Wert.

She was the reason the one request that the girls stay with them for a couple of weeks in the summer was denied.

She was the reason I dreaded picking up the phone and calling that number, just to find out if Dad was ok.  He would never answer, so I always had to go through her first, just to talk to him, and sometimes she wouldn't let me talk to him. Sometimes she wouldn't give him my messages or share anything I said (what little there was because conversations were always about her). 

Lots of memories. Lots of hurt. Lots of pain to work through.  

Lots of healing needed.

So going to WOJ this weekend helped.  I listened to the speakers talk about the positives in our lives and how faith will help us through the tough moments.  I listened to the advice to leave the past there and more to the future.  As one speaker said, twelve years of her life should not be the deciding factor for the rest of it.  One incident in childhood should not dictate the happiness or positivity in one's adult life.

But for me and my sister, it was not just 12 years.  It was not just one incident.  It started when we were young and continued until a few weeks before Mom's death.  

I listened to the songs about how we are not 'dirty' (from abuse) for we are 'clean' in the Christ.

I listen to the 10 commandments and wonder still if I have broken "Honor the father and mother" big time because I am not grieving Mom's death.  That I share the horrible things she did to Greta and me with others as I try to work through them.  

I cried during some of the messages.  I cried during several of Natalie Grant's songs.  

It will just take time.  And even though I may hear the message over and over, even though many people have told me the same things, even though I have talked about it often, I still need time to heal.  The scars are still there.  It still hurts.  

So...the next time I am sad, or if I mention Mom and my hurt about her, instead of rolling the eyes, walking away, or asking me "again?", reach out and give me a hug.  Tell me you understand.  Help me heal.  It just takes time.

Wake Up Call

Finally.  The appointment with the cardiologist was kept.  Not cancelled by either of us.  I was there, at 12:45 as scheduled.

On the drive to Frankfort yesterday morning, I could feel myself get nervous, like I always do before a doctor's appointment.  At the last visit in September 2016, he said he didn't need to see me for a year. I was doing very well, my BP was great, everything sounded as good as it could with AFib, and a year would be good. I hesitated and said I would feel better coming in earlier, like in 9 months.  So an appointment was made for May 22.

Well, you know what happened.  Mom died on the 19th.  We were in Ohio.  Appointment re-scheduled for early June.  Then we were in Ohio that week too, so it was re-scheduled for later in June.  Then he had to cancel.  Re-schedule again for mid-July, then we were in Ohio that week too.  So finally on August 8, the day after we returned from the trip to Kansas, the appointment was NOT cancelled, and I was sitting in the office, trying to calm myself.

The nurse took my BP on one arm, then frowned and moved to the other arm. Why, I asked. Because she knew that the reading must not be right because it was higher than it should be, looking at my recent appointment readings.  Three readings later - no change.  It was still 156/100.  Usually it is around 112 or 116/75 or so.

So what did I do?   Burst into tears.   I explained that not only had my mom died on May 19, my mother-in-law had died on November 10 and my father-in-law before that on March 31 so we had lost three of our parents in 14 months.  And to top it off we had been in Ohio for five weeks off and on through the summer to clean out the house which was a major undertaking.  I felt like I was falling apart.  My chest was hurting (from tension, I know) and now my BP was high, and my eating habits had gone crazy and I was just falling apart, quickly.   So I sat there and cried.  

Now the nurse was comforting and tried to sympathize by saying that it was very hard to lose one's mother, that she had lost hers 8 years earlier and still missed her every day.  She even told me as we were walking out that it would hit me at strange times just how much I missed my mother.   When I finally got to the car again, I cried more and not because that was true.  I was crying because I felt so guilty that I wasn't missing my mother.  I didn't miss her.  I didn't think I would ever miss her.  It was a relief to know that I would NOT be laughed at or berated or made fun of or yelled at anymore, as I had been for most of my life.  Not just an old lady ranting or with dementia affecting her.  No...she didn't like me and let me know it.  How can I miss being told how stupid I am?  How can I miss her phone calls when she never called me to start with?  Will I ever go to the phone and pick it up and call 330-264-4261 without thinking, then stop and remember that she is gone?  No.  I haven't done that for years because she didn't like to talk to me.  Or if I did call her, it was all about her and the newscasters and what she had read in the paper or how terrible the neighbors were, then she would write in her journal that I had called and 'reamed her out'.  No...not missing that at all.  

So I kept crying.  And I cried as I drove from Mulberry to Megan's house.  I sobbed.  I yelled.  I bawled.  I let it all out.

But the fact remains that my BP is high.  Too high.  What to do?

Change my eating habits.  My plans to return to WW fell through since my Wednesdays are full right now until at least the middle of September.  But I can change them on my own. I know what to do.  I just have to follow through and do it.

Rest.  I need to sleep at night. No more staying up until midnight and getting up at 6:30.  Going to bed at 9:30 or so will help.  I can read, fall asleep, rest, and feel better.

Walk.  I was walking more at Mike's and I really felt better.  Granted it was only two days of walking plus all of the walking on the fairgrounds for a couple of days, but it really helped me feel better.  I can walk in the park in Winamac or on the Panhandle Pathway.  I should have been walking around the subdivision when I was at Mom's but I didn't.  Too busy cleaning out all of her junk and bagging up clothes.

One way or the other I will do this.  

BP check with the nurse when we return from the auction.

Another appt with the doctor in February.

Once the auction is over and the estate settled, the tension should ease.

Right?  It has to.