The Power of a Smell

Yesterday evening, walking at the park, I reached to touch a new pinecone. Thick sap clung to my fingers and I held them to my nose to enjoy the fresh smell. It is the smell of a memory, of walking in woods where the sound of footfalls are dampened from layers of pine needles, and every step disturbs the pollen and brings the woody scent closer to me. I can hear the lake’s waves touching the shoreline with a steady rhythm, the driftwood caught on a shallow point hitting the rocks with a hollow echo. On the other side of the water, mountains rise, skirted in green at their feet and covered in snowy caps. Strains of “How Great Thou Art” still float above the water as the last note ends.

The smell of fresh pine makes me think of snowy morning moments at home. Wood smoke stings my nose as I build a fire in the potbellied stove, as the pine and kindling woods catching fire mingles with the aroma of fresh yeast bread rising in a sunny window. The coffee pot is waiting to refill my cup and a pot of soup bubbles on the stove for later in the day; both adding moisture rich aromas to the house. Outside in the snow, every breath drawn in feels somehow fresher; and when the pine tree smell drifts my way, it feels like Christmas.

On a summer trip, campground spaces in a deep pine wood are shared with friends. I remember laughing until I cried and then laughing some more. Pancakes were cooked on an outside griddle as we stood around and just enjoyed being together. Prayer, songs, more laughter, and soon we were clinking forks onto plates with sweet syrup and fluffy pancakes. The pine woods held little birds that sang above our heads and crows that floated through announcing their passing-by with much volume and fanfare.

It always amazes me how a single smell can cause biological triggers, bringing back rushes of memory in a moment. I traipse down sentimental neurological paths that have been cobwebbed since last visited, dust them off and look for the pine trees.  

Rain on a Metal Roof and Other Sounds

The rain has been pouring this evening. Plunk, plunk, plunk… as the rain lands on the metal tub sitting on the porch. It reminds me of the soothing sound of rain on a metal roof. 

Sitting on a front porch and listening to a summer rain plunk on a metal roof. The porch swing chains creak as they carry it back and forth slowly, one foot lightly keeping the momentum going as the other leg is tucked underneath me. I can practically smell the purple in the vetch on the hill. Frogs near the pond jump from logs, land with a splash and add their own songs to the rain. I feel the bulk of my book; there is the weight of the actual bound print and the heft of the words resting in my hands. The words pull me in slowly, sinking me into the moment and bringing the lyrics of my book alive. The sounds of the rain bring backs lovely memories and I think of how our senses can be such a gift. 

Spring Smells & Memory

I slipped my toes out of my shoes at the end of the day today and stepped onto fresh spring grass. Tussocks of green in a Midwestern spring, letting the skin on the bottom of my feet meet the skin of the earth. It’s only April, the dirt and grass are still cool to the initial touch. But soon, the combination of sun and standing patiently results in a warming of the earth and my feet.

Spring is rich in sensory experiences, a veritable feast. It was the sense of smell that has particularly pulled at my mind since Palm Sunday. Sitting next to me, a young palm frond waver listened to a sermon while gently waving the leaf in his hands. It wasn’t a distraction, it was a richness of a fresh scent of green making its way to me. Some time has passed since, spring has progressed, and now stepping outside and into the grass reminds of that same smell. 

Weather permitting, I have been trying to walk to work. Those scents have been with me on my walks. I have been breathing in the greening of spring in the tulip tree blossoms, the so subtle scent of the forsythia, and tiny early spring flowers that smell like the blue, white, purple and pink of their blooms. We know from science and from our own experiences that smell is a powerful part of memory making. And that smell, the palm frond, the green smell, it made me wonder – what smell triggered a memory for someone after the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. 

Was it the smell of palm fronds under feet and hoof? Was it the smell of dust rising and mingling with the sharpness of sweat as the clothes were placed on the road? Was it the barn smell of a donkey, the sharp odor of manure with the sweet smell of barns? Was it the smell of the multitude moving together, crying out “Hosanna?” 

I imagine the gentle smell of the palm and how someone else may have smelled and remembered all of those events that happened years ago. Remembered the entry, the triumph, the hope of political change and resolution against a world power. Did the green smell tinge with the bitter, as the memories turned from smells of celebration and welcome turn to smells of blood, fearful tears and warmed armor on a legionnaire? Or did the smell remain fresh and sweet, like the resin smell of the anointing spices that was not needed, not used on someone dead?

Jesus - not dead – not the smell of death. The smell of life, the smell of green and growth. I wonder if they thought of it every spring.

Not Forgotten

Not Forgotten – the victims of the day.

Not Forgotten – the rescuers who ran toward danger

Not Forgotten – the prayer vigils that broke down barriers

Not Forgotten – unlikely heroes who displayed selflessness

Not Forgotten – crumbled steel, clouds of dust, debris fields

Not Forgotten – loss of innocence in looking at any and all airplane flying overhead

Not Forgotten – kindness of neighbors

Not Forgotten – where I was that day

Not Forgotten – the days of strife that followed

Not Forgotten – more sacrifice from those in uniform, and their families and friends that love them

Not Forgotten – leadership in terrible circumstances

Not Forgotten – integrity and honor as hands extended to help

Not Forgotten – many prayers for peace, forgiveness, and for those most directly impacted to retain hope

Not Forgotten – changing laws, terror alerts, new fears

Not Forgotten – structures created by ingenuity, built by strong hands, staffed with those going about their normal day, and their absence

Not Forgotten – a field that became a memorial for an act of selflessness

Not Forgotten – new dreams, new structures, new growth in that field

Not Forgotten – a new day, not that this whole threat is over, but that we can stand, in hands linked in prayer and strength to cry out with one voice

No, they are not forgotten.  And those who survive them and have attempted piece their lives back together are also not forgotten.  I remember where I was that day, the feelings of confusion, shock, and horror.  I remember the pride in those who responded, working to the point of exhaustion over and over to save lives.  I remember prayers for those I love in uniform, for their safety and care while they were going about their duties.  I remember the terror alerts that came out, the color coding system that seemed would become part of our daily world for a while.  Such a cry of pride in those who serve came out, making me also feel pride for those celebrating our responders.  We must not forget the horror of that day.  Nor, the kindness, ingenuity, strength, heroism, selflessness, and genuine love displayed in the days following. 

Patterns of Thought

My head hits the pillow and before I fall asleep, my normal routine is a review of the day and any big events.  I often find myself thinking of things I need to do tomorrow, making a mental list.  Night is when thoughts can get stuck easier, playing over and over in my mind.  Morning is fresh and between the business of getting ready for work and the new day, my thoughts take a decidedly different pattern.  But, it is interesting how morning thoughts and night time thoughts are patterned differently.

Morning thoughts are decidedly more practical and task driven.  Take the dogs out, coffee in the cup, creamer too, get ready for work, and those are the thoughts that are pretty much lined up in my head.  After the coffee clears out the morning cobwebs, thoughts still tend to stay practical.  To do lists, notebooks to jot down things I need to remember to do, and calendars are the order of the day. 

But night time is another structure of thought all together.  As the day winds down, thoughts leave the calendar structure of the day and become more abstract.  It is this time when I find that in the quiet of bed time, my mind can still be whirring and need additional quiet to stop.  It may be a moment during the day, a note from a friend that made me smile.  Thoughts could take song from the sparrows singing in chorus in the bush behind the kitchen.  Memories of family moments, like Fourth of July picnics and Christmas celebrations, can bring a smile as I remember and drift off to sleep.  Dreams of future plans and hopes take shape in thought and reform themselves over and over. 

The do-over wishes sometime creep in; hurts or words that have cut will also make themselves known.  Like a fever that has disappeared during the day, to reassert itself at night, I try not to let those get stuck, though sometimes I am not so successful.  Worries can creep in, taking what should be a time to relax and before I know it I am squirming about, my shoulders tensed up to my chin and sleep makes itself scarce.  Go away little worry, stop poking at me, stop the replay of the words over that do not help!  I was thinking not so much of a specific instance last night, but how vulnerability to these kinds of things seems to increase at night.  

Patterns of thought, morning and night, the patterns change.  

Catching Up - Part I

  I have started writing a blog over the last few weeks and found myself stuck, not because I have ran out of things to say (but because I have been doing a lot of writing at work and my brain seems to want to be in neutral at home).  So, let me recap….

   There was Memorial Day – wonderful sleeping in day!  I love a sale as much as the next person, but that day is really not about sales for me.  I have had many people in my family that have served in the military.  And, it is a day that I remember not only those who served or are serving, but also those who are left behind and serve at home.  The mothers, wives, and children who waited at home for the letters from far off battle field held it all together until the family was joined again. 

   It was graduation weekend too – with parties and ceremonies and a combination of memories remembered and new ones made.  There are a few kids saying bye-bye to high school and hello to the new adventure of college.  Of course, it brought back memories of my own high school graduation.  We held our ceremony outside, and the memories of that day and the celebration came rolling back.

   A birthday girl turned 8 years old!  And I had such fun helping to celebrate that with her.  She is growing up so beautifully, inside and out.  I have spent the majority of my growing up away from family, so I have missed many birthday parties.  It is so much fun to participate in these family parties with special friends. 

There was more, but it will have to wait for another day – my mind is tired and my eyes say it is time to ditch the contacts and go to sleep.  

Twelve Pages

   Every year, when I take down my calendar and put up the new one, I like to take a few minutes to peruse the last twelve pages of the calendar. I flip through January and see visits with sledding and snowman building. The visits with sweet friends in February leads up to the beginning of spring fever and March seed picking. April sees the beginning of the local garden centers being restocked, the smell of dirt starts to come back as the ground starts to thaw. May shows a trip back home to Ohio and Kentucky, with little smiley faces leading up to the date I needed to leave. Birthdays in May and then birthdays in June, days of cake and cards with plans to celebrate. July celebrations of patriotic independence and summer days, complete with sunshine and sun block. August leads to school starting, school supply sales and the feel of autumn as a hint to be. September finds me counting down anxiously for an October trip to Florida. November and Thanksgiving fly by as Christmas is coming. I love looking back at the year and as I see dates marked out on my calendar of events, lunch plans, trips, birthdays, doctor and dentist appointments, I remember many different moments of the year.

   It is only then that I am ready to really close out that calendar, say good bye to 2010 and welcome 2011.

Christmas – Rich in Memory

   I had planned on tackling Christmas decorations this weekend, trying to get as much done as possible; and must say, overall I am pleased with the result. The house looks quite festive, and is gradually becoming the Christmas looking place that we want it to be. My determination to get as much done as possible started flagging about 6 o’clock Sunday evening. I was becoming overwhelmed with memories, like a rich dessert it was something that a small taste of was plenty.

   A white angel is hung on a branch that came from my great grandmother. Little white clay snowmen, made by a cousin, are hung on another set of branches. A cloisonné bell rings a beautiful little tune and sits next to a porcelain nativity and a crocheted angel. So many ornaments as they were pulled from a container as my hand would touch it, the memory would touch me. A family gathering, a gift, someone who is no longer here, music, meals, gifts, trips; memories are rich with sound, color and texture.
   As I hang the ornaments, I find myself thinking about those who are no longer here to celebrate with. I wonder what their Christmas memories were. Were there favorite foods, a special song, or a tradition? I wonder about Mary, what her memories were from that first Christmas, the birthday of her son – of God’s son. Her memories would have been different, those of a mother.

Christmas – The Ornaments

One of my favorite parts of Christmas is decorating the trees.  Every year, I find a blend of familiar and new.  New arrangements of old ornaments are carefully planned and placed on the tree.  Ribbon is wound around the branches in sweeping swags of color, picking up the light and adding their own new color scheme.  But, it is more than the color, it is the memories.  The memories when I pick up flour based cookies, that are more like fired clay, that were painted by a great-grandmother who passed away several years ago.  The memories are good and strong.  Another ornament is of the Nutcracker, as the dancers are posed in porcelain, forever echoing the grace of that movement.  It reminds me of Florida winters and the Saenger Theater.  An ivory colored porcelain ornament with doors that swing open on tiny hinges reveal a nativity and bring back other memories.  As this Christmas approaches, I am looking forward to pulling out the ornaments and renewing the memories. 

I Remember

   I remember that day. I remember watching two planes crash into buildings. It seemed like some terribly Orson Welles joke that had gone catastrophically wrong. I remember thanking God the towers had not fallen immediately, as it gave the chance for many to escape. I remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach when they did fall. The skies that I so love had suddenly become a holder of enemies. The dust, dirt, blood, tears, sweat, earth, plaster, debris, and fear that flooded the country flooded my home too. I sat on the couch in shock. I sat on the bed in shock. I wanted a hug from my mother; I wanted to hear my father’s voice. I remember the feeling of horror in knowing there were other flights, and we were waiting. Waiting for an attack, waiting for something. I remember the fear that spread of further attacks, military weapons, and biological weapons.

   I remember the determination of everyday, ordinary people, making a stand where they were. I remember watching people run toward the sites where there were horrors to terrible to describe. I remember civilian hands becoming field medics for the minor needs. I remember seeing those who have walked in different office floors, ridden in elevators without talking; now holding each other up. I remember the compassion, the surge of pride in our fire fighters, paramedics, and police officers. I remember the vigils held, the candles lit, and the prayers prayed. I remember the silence of the sky as flights were grounded. Songs were sung, neighbors gathered, monuments were planned.
   It has been nine years. It has been nine years and a few days since that day, that terrible infamous, tragic, and horrid day. It has been nine years and a few days since that inspiring, determined, angry day. Now, the discussion is more about this political venture, that conflict. I don’t want to get into politics on here, so I will skip that issue and say instead. I remember our unity in our hurt. Now, we must find our humanity in our healing.

School Day

   School is starting back up across the country. Some started last week and some are still a week or two out, but over the next month school doors will be opened. Don’t you remember the first days of school? It was a mix of excitement and uncertainty, in dreading that summer was over and yet perhaps secretly glad that the routine is going back into place. Lockers and cubby holes, book bags, school supplies, and text books that seem to grow exceedingly heavier as the grades progress greeted me at the door. I remember looking forward to music class in elementary school. We sang the 50 state song and other songs as well. The teacher would always introduce themselves and start setting up some expectations of the year. The class clown was well, being a clown. And there were incessant songs about new shoes in third grade (not my favorite thing).
    Then, my perspective shifted as I was preparing the classroom for the students. Materials had been prepared over the course of the summer. Posters had been hung with a pound of sticky tack goo and seating charts had been prepared carefully. In the days leading up to the start of school, it was quiet in that room. I remember studiously preparing my lesson plans (which got a little less formal in writing as the year progressed). There was excitement and nervousness as we waited for students to come in.
   As the teachers prepare for a new school year, as the students reluctantly drag themselves in from the summer freedoms, I hope you all have a wonderful school year. Not only full of learning, but also complete with friendships, laughter, and conquerable challenges.

Goodbye Shoebox

     In my closet there are several shoeboxes, without shoes in them. Instead, they are stuffed full of cards, notes, comic strips, photos, and little mementos from over the years. Tickets torn in half from movies, programs from different shows, and a little confetti sit in boxes. Every once in a while, I pull them down out of the closet and go through them. Birthdays, special moments, and special people come back to me in memories. I remember friends that I have dearly loved and haven’t seen in years. I remember family that I haven’t seen in much too long and will not see again on this earth. Memories and melancholy and joy mix into together and live in those shoe boxes. Ribbons tie on some of the lids which are bulging and need some extra help.

     The shoeboxes are a reminder of what has been. I don’t live there now, I don’t even linger there very often. But, every once in a while I have a desire to see something from years ago and to remember the laughter, challenges, sweat, and plans that made up those days. Then, I put them away and say good bye to my shoeboxes. I say good-bye to what was and hello to what is and look forward to what could be.

Teacher

I have seen signs occasionally that say, “If you can read this thank a teacher”. Teachers are very important people. They spend countless hours working on projects, papers, lessons, activities, and cajoling unwilling students to be motivated to learn something. The phone calls, e-mails, counseling sessions, and preparation that go into forming a student are a gift.

I had the opportunity to visit with my eighth grade science teacher this week. A lunch went quickly as we tried to get caught up. I have many fond memories of her class. I remember science being fun and something I could understand. I have always struggled with math, and as science advanced the math concepts were often something which caused me to not understand the theories. But, with a firm grasp of the materials and a passion for learning, I found out that I could learn science. I remember experiments on electricity and discussions about space.
Mainly what stands out for me though is this woman helped me to adjust to a new area, a new culture. It was one that felt very different, and I really felt out of place. I was missing Murray, Kentucky and my friends there. Then in comes this woman who loves NASA, as do I. She invited me to the Physics team. I was so overwhelmed, these were the really smart kids and I mean really smart. But, I had a blast doing different experiments. It is her faith, her solidity, her caring about friends and family that has become more dear as I have grown older.
Then, on a trip through the area she went out of her way to share a time and catch up. I am honored. I can read and I do thank a teacher. But, that is not the only thing I have been taught.

Summertime

Summer – the word evokes a flurry of responses in me. I live near an elementary school, and notice that for the children making their way back and forth, they seem to have picked up a new spring in their steps. Summer is freedom; freedom from school and homework, to have time to sleep in or get up way to early and play outside until way too late. Summer time and the living is easy.... the words from George Gershwin float on the too still warm air as I seek out the comfort of shade. Lightning bugs and the sounds of night cricket sonnets fill the air as much as the light from the stars and moon. The sounds of leaves in the wind, they strike me as if they actually are laughing with the pure delight of receiving a cooler breeze than those of us with two feet stuck firmly on the earth. Summer is sun dresses and sandals, sheer silky scarves wrapped around your neck and lawn chairs. Summer is the splash of the garden hose and the smell of fresh sun warmed strawberries. Summer is the bliss of walking into the air conditioning and being able to snuggle under a quilt rather than sweating buckets on top of all sheets while fans are running. Summer is baby birds that don’t fly very well yet, are slightly mottled and now stand next to their momma’s while waiting to be fed rather than waiting in the nest. Summer is the sound of the riverboat horns as they approach each other.

I have a lot of really wonderful summer memories. I have played in sprinklers, mud, and trees. I remember making up plays with neighborhood compatriots who apparently either was willing to share the flare for the story telling or just did what the bossy neighbor girl told them. A white long haired dog named Bo Bo used to stand on our picnic table, and wait for us to come and pet him. He appreciated the attention as one of those good neighborhood dogs. He did not appreciate it when my mother tried to use some flea killer on him. With hurt feelings, he did not come back for a week. I remember summer vacations, especially ones in the back of a big green van. It had a bed in the back and I loved lying on that bed, and having it completely covered with whatever project I was working on at the time. I would let myself roll from side to side as we went around corners and watch other drivers out of the back windows. I remember many summers of band and sweating on the side of a football field. It seemed a great accomplishment to learn a few new steps, a few new notes, which we knew would be needed come fall and competitions. The accomplishment seemed worth the sacrifice of our summer hours, our sweat, blood, and yes – tears. I remember trips to stay with my grandparents. Swimming at the campground with one and all sorts of messy projects with another.
I look at this summer and as it is my first one without either being in school, preparing for school, or completely burned out from school, and I wonder what I should do with myself this summer. There is work of course. But, that is to support life, not life itself. What should I do? Read a few new books? Of course! Three are on order, two Geoffrey of Monmouth books and one biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine. I have considered lying down on the driveway at night while the pavement is still warm, but figure the neighbors would all think I had gone completely buggy. Oh well, I may do that anyway. There are flowers to picked, pictures to be taken, birds to listen to. Trips to plan, friends to visit, and time to enjoy the antics of the dogs. There is my Bible to read, my time in prayer, and Character Camp at church (like a VBS). This summer is unique. It will never come again. I feel that I need to dig down deep and plant something here that is memorable, that will be recalled someday like my grandmother’s snowball bushes. A lasting memory that comes back to life with a fragrance or sight.

Laughing in the Cemetery

There is something so incredibly healing to be able to laugh in the cemetery. Not in an effort to cover up grief, but instead as pain fades to remember the joyful times and laugh. In Kentucky, at the top of a grassy meadowed hill there is a cemetery, fenced off from where a white Brahma bull used to live. There are tombstones from the 1800s through the early 2000s, many of which are decorated for the Memorial Weekend. A large tree spreads out branches in many directions, strong and reaching upward as the high point on that hill. It offers shade and a visual anchor as the grasses blow about. It is in this cemetery that my great-grandfather was buried. I never knew him; he died shortly after my grandmother was born. At the time, many tears were shed. As two more babies were laid to rest in that ground, tears again were shed. Wailing in grief, cries that would send shivers up your spine have been described to me.

Yesterday, the pain of these deaths had faded. We gathered at the cemetery to respect and honor the memories. But, the stories that were shared were the stories of the living; they were the stories of life and laughter, movement and hard work. Injuries and family ties were shared as we laughed and recounted stories. Sitting in the cemetery, taking off my tennis shoes and sparing my feet from a few more minutes of heat, I felt the cool in the grass from the tree’s shade. Cousins shared stories, another came to clean off the tombstone – picking at the engraved area with a knife to remove the growth that had occurred over a year. The Brahma bull was gone, but the memories live on.
It can be so helpful to have a place to grieve, a place to lay flowers and tell stories. It’s not really the place though that is as important as the chance to do so, to tell the stories of the people when they were alive, to tell the stories of these people when they impacted our lives. And eventually it is time to laugh in the cemetery.

Chords

Walking up to the top of the Fannin Eldgridge Cemetery, you climb and climb the hill. Walking on a dirt road, there are trees and ferns, wildflowers and moss, on both sides. Thick green growth with butterflies who fly more like dive bombers than the expected flitting creatures are accompanied by a few bees buzzing about. If you come a little late, or are a slower hill walker-upper than others, when you near the top third of the climb, the sounds of the singing occurring at the top seems to just be a sweet breath of air. It washes over you, flowing past and into you as you climb.

Yesterday, I made such a climb. We started out on time. Then, the realization hit that the box of hymnals that had been packed so that everyone could sing along, had been forgotten at the church. A quick trip back to retrieve those left us walking up the hill and listening to that singing. It’s not about how fast you climb the hill; it’s not even about how easy it is to climb the hill. Instead, this hill seems to be a badge of honor. The elderly used to state that if they could climb the hill one more year, then they must be doing all right with their health and would live another year. At the top, there was a small service with a short message and then more singing. Tall pine trees stood like sentinels around us, green and fragrant. Mosses of different kinds created soft and cushy spots on the ground. A rosebush was blooming pink blossoms. The tombstones needed to have the old flowers removed and the new flowers placed.
I enjoy the whole process, except perhaps for knowing that there are snakes in those woods. But, it is the music floating back down the rough dirt road that is something that stands out. Voices blend in different harmonies. Some voices are on key while others are off. Staccato or legato phrasing can be heard, with either sharp and quick words, smooth pronouncements, or something in between occurring. Some voices are very pure, others are nasal. The bass is present, the tenor, the alto, and the soprano. The harmony bends and sways with the music depending on how familiar everyone is with the piece. Sometimes notes are off and do not blend or perhaps are not resolved well. Others can barely be heard as they try to be invisible in their vocal contribution. The words are not always known, or how the parts split out to do their own thing. This can result in a momentary confusion and unsure sense of what to do next.
It wasn’t until later in the day that I really thought about the music and how family is a lot like that. Some come into this world with a beautiful tone, on pitch and pleasant to the ears. They are the encouragers, the ones who can make children laugh, or can speak softly to those who are frightened. Others can squall out a tune which will make the least of the vocally trained dive for cover. Sang with great gusto and absolute disregard for the others around them, the pitch wavers and jumps up to hide the softer. Those who are barely making any sound at all are there, even if they are difficult to hear. They may have the most beautiful harmony of all, but without additional courage no one will ever hear it. Harmonizers can move between parts and add an additional layer to what is there, building the strength of the music.
Family is a lot like this. Perhaps you can realize yourself in the midst of that. I watched children play and they were in a moment of harmony. Their squeals and laughter, mixed with the sound of the creek running around their toes was beautiful. It was a part of the music filled with little bubbles of sweetness and joy. At other times, the music was more somber. A cemetery was looked out over and those who had finished singing their music here and were leaving only their echoing themes were remembered.
There are signs commonly found about not getting to pick your family. Well, that is true. There will be discord from time to time. The very quiet one may grow louder and be tired of the one who always sings loud claiming all of the part. They will have to determine the new blend and start a new theme. Family is messy; there are many discords, many unresolved notes. But it is a symphony of sound, of tightly interlaced chords.

Blueberry Garden Dreams

Yesterday it was the first day of visiting family, a whirlwind set of visits really. First it was a visit on a front porch with great coffee, after having a delightfully long sleeping-in morning time. Then a quick (perhaps the driver, who was not me, was speeding a bit) drive to a neighboring town for a lunch visit. After that, a stop to visit one set of grandparents, led to a visit with an aunt, uncle, and cousin. This was followed by a visit with the other set of grandparents, aunt, and cousin, and then dinner at a cemetery. I craved a nap around three which never occurred and enjoyed the day thoroughly.

I have to laugh at the themes that seem to have run commonly throughout the day, blueberries being one of them. At each stop blueberries seemed to come up as a topic of “brain food”. Apparently there has been some sort of recent scientific breakthrough on the importance of blueberries, which I have completely missed. Each group seemed to be laughing and discussing how they needed to remember to eat blueberries, kind of like people have joked about the need to remember to take ginko-biloba for memory. The thing I found funny is that it seemed to fit in every single conversation today at least once. How? I don’t know. I wonder if we are really running in these parallel and interlacing topic conversations all the time and just don’t stop talking long enough to listen and realize it, and enjoy it. The world got a little smaller.

The majority of the day was spent with one set of grandparents in particular. As a variety of health issues have kept them unable to visit us eight hours away, these are precious and a little bit sad times. They are precious because they run deep with memories and emotions, sad because every time I come the aging process can strike me when I least expect it. I walked my grandma’s beautiful yard today. She has so many flowers, snowball bushes that make the whole yard filled with a delicate fragrance and the most beautiful rusty red roses you have ever seen. I noticed how large the pine trees were, pine trees that I remember having branches cut off at Christmas when I was a little girl. Grandma would turn me loose with a pine branch, somewhat precariously arranged, in the living room to decorate. She would pull out all the old ornaments she could find and let me decorate it as I wished. There was no hint at going back and rearranging to suit a sense of balance on her part, but it was always something I felt she thought was beautiful just as it was. I have memories of family gatherings in the yard; summers spent smelling the snowball bush every time I walked out of the kitchen door. The memories were as fragrant as that bush and hit me with such a whoosh that I was grateful for the sunglasses hiding the rim of wetness in my eyes.

Finally it was a dinner at the cemetery. On the drive there, grandma shared a dream of all the flat roofed buildings being made into garden areas. She has such a green thumb and love of plants, that I can see how that would have been her dream long before green spaces became the popular thing to do. Sitting in the backseat, the conversation sound moved in and out, and I let myself drift away from that and think of the beauty of flattop roof gardens. Not just produce for restaurants that may be below, but think of how nice it would be step into a garden on a work break, or at a retirement center. Then, we passed the hospital, which is very large and very flat roofed, what a beautiful place that could be for patients and staff to rest and recuperate, either from a medical procedure or just from stress.

But, I mentioned dinner at the cemetery. That may sound strange to you, even a bit morbid. I can offer assurances that it is anything but that. We all showed up with lawn chairs, or a blanket, something to eat, and sat around and talked. There was some memory times being shared, photos, and even a poem and a song. There was laughter and there were tears wiped away. That’s okay; it’s a safe place to wipe those tears. Fears were shared of future ailments and difficulties being walked through in quieter tones as some moved short distances away to talk in the private. A little boy found an excellent climbing tree and took great delight in watching the branches sway above our heads. I sat at one point and listened to four different conversations going on around me, one about genealogy, another about pets, telling stories on children and family gatherings past, and another telling stories on siblings sitting right there. I laughed when I heard blueberries. I have lived away from my “home” long enough that I know that this will seem a strange thing, disrespectful in some circles and perhaps bordering on outrageous in others. It is healing though. I don’t grieve for the great grandmother, great uncle, or cousin buried there. I grieve for us who are left, the son without his mother, the three sisters who miss their mommy, the father and mother missing their daughter. It is okay to grieve them, it is okay to hurt. It is also okay to share our grief in a different way, celebrating not only their lives, but their legacy.

The legacy they leave us, of lessons taught, stories told, songs favored, favorites and dislikes are a powerful thing. Standing in the hallway of my grandparents’ home, I was reminded of one of the legacies they are leaving us – learning, family, memory making, and of course enjoying the beauty of life, be it snowball bush, child, or blueberry. It makes me think a little deeper, plan a little harder and a little more purposefully on what type of legacy I am leaving those around me.

Can’t I Pack the Kitchen Sink Too?

Yesterdat was the day to finish all the preparation for the trip before the trip actually begins. That wouldn’t be too bad if coming home from work, I had actually the bags upstairs and had things in them. I did however, have a list of what needs packed. I love lists, actually I love crossing things off lists. As the to do’s get shifted into the all done it is a happy thing.

      But, I digress…
I am leaving for the better part of a week, heading home to Ohio and Kentucky. Ohio is where I was born and where the majority of my family lives. Kentucky is the family home. I know I have never lived in that part of Kentucky, but somehow that mineral rich soil has soaked into our blood stream and made it home. There are reunions planned, visits with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Cleaning off the head stones from last year and putting on new flowers for this year, the children will be brought into the process as this helps them learn to remember their ancestors and history. So, what do I take on such a trip jumping from suburbia to the beautiful foot hills? Well clothes, toothpaste, shampoo, and socks of course. And lotion, my camera, bug spray, and make up as well. But, there are other things that get packed – a shovel and trash bags to sit plants in and bring home. Music for the van is an absolute necessity, but it requires forethought. Not only does something for the road demand energy, but when we pull around the bend and watch the foothills appear – that is when the correct music must be available, something delicate and yet strong.
There are some other things that get packed, stories of the past, memories, hopes for renewal during family times, and time to just stroll around grandma’s yard breathing deeply of the pines and snowball bushes. So much is going to be stuffed into that van, surely the kitchen sink will be in there somewhere as well.

Memories

Recently I had the privilege of attending a high school choir concert, and though I enjoyed it very much I found my mind wandering past the music and into my memories. I was remembering my own high school performances, with band- not choir. I was remembering the friends and laughter, inside jokes and camaraderie. Trips and competitions, stories and band parents, rehearsals before and after school…. As the seniors lined the stage in their choir robes and fabulous high heels (sorry guys, your shoes aren’t as catchy), I hoped that they took a moment to really take in the moment and form the memory. I have similar moments, standing looking at a crowd after a performance, looking over the band from the sidelines as we in the pit watched them practice the same moves over and over and over and over. Giggly moments where we tried so hard to remain straight faced and other times when our directors made us so mad, they were all part of the memory.

The choir did a great job, and I thank them for the music and the accompaniment as I journey down the lane.