I Wear Pink When I’m Happy

If you ever see a dog with a yellow ribbon on its leash, give it some space. Perhaps it was traumatized, or perhaps its old and sick, but no matter the reason, if you see a yellow ribbon on the dog’s leash, give him a little space. He needs fresh air and sunshine, but for whatever reason, he’s not likely to enjoy the head pats you want to give him. He can’t tell you himself, so the yellow ribbon is a message so the owner doesn’t have to be quite so diligent in protecting the dog’s boundaries.

Sometimes I wish we humans had signals that we could wear, too.

Some days I’m really, really super happy. When I’m super happy, I wear pink. Pink has become my favorite color. If you want someone to sing show tunes with you on the walkway between the office building and the courthouse and I’m wearing one of my pink blazers, you can bet I’m game. If I’m wearing pink, and you need cheering up, I have extra smiles to give away that day. I’ll listen to your worst jokes and laugh. Sometimes I’ll even wear my pink raincoat. Not even the rain can bring me down when I’m wearing my pink raincoat and carrying my rainbow umbrella.

I’m not always happy. I try my very best to keep a smile on my face, but sometimes I’m really sad and my heart hurts. I don’t have a dress code for sad, but I suppose if I’m wearing my green blazer (the drab one – not the lime green leather one with ruffles), I’m probably somewhere on the sad end of the spectrum.

In centuries past, we wore black to show that we were in mourning. A widow grived anywhere from a year and a day to two and a half years! Black was the color of mourning. I gave that some thought this morning. I thought perhaps that wearing the black was to remind people that you had suffered a loss – to remind them to give you some space, but it seems that perhaps it was to keep the grieving widow from finding her happiness too quickly.

I’m not very good at asking for what I need from other people. I’m not quick to say, “I’m hurting today,” or “I can’t believe my good fortune today, I want to celebrate!” Sometimes I wish I could let people know how I feel just by choosing a shirt.

Imagine if a gray tie / shirt / jacket meant, “I’m really busy today. I wish I had time to chat, but I really need to get this project done,” and people would just smile and nod and let you get your work done without feeling badly.

Perhaps a blue dress / scarf / blouse would mean, “I’m feeling blue – I’m in need of a little cheering up,” and people would stop by my door just to check in. Perhaps they’d touch my shoulder when they talk to me, or drop a chocolate heart on my chair when I’m away from my desk.

Revisiting that “wearing black for mourning” might not be a bad thing. My mom has been gone for two years now. During those first months, there were days I couldn’t talk about anyone’s mom – or about death – or anything that reminded me of Mom, or death, or loss. I couldn’t communicate the need that I had on those days to talk about something else – anything else. I didn’t want people to stay away. I just wanted them to know that if they saw tears rolling down my face for no discernable reason, then maybe then could just hold some space for me. It’s hard to tell people, “I really, really want some company, but I cry when anything at all reminds me of my mom.”

Purple could be for problems we’d rather not discuss. Oh, dear. I think I’d run out of colors well before I run out of emotions.

I’ll still wear pink when I’m happy, but sometimes I cry a little on my way to work. Life’s complicated sometimes.

12/5/2018 – A Christmas Card from Home by Way of Heaven

Posted by BecomingBetty

This morning began with a series of text messages. Texting is not my preferred mode of communication, and I don’t use it often, so when a series of “dings” occurred in rapid succession, it was a sure sign that something was amiss. Indeed, My Aunt Fran went to heaven this morning.

I sent a short message of condolence to my cousin and read the same from other cousins as they came across my screen. I brewed a cup of coffee and sat in the quiet living room, not quite sure how to feel.

I grew up with many loving aunts and uncles, but Aunt Fran was a favorite. She taught Sunday School and Children’s Church. She had a room in her basement full of little toys that she would give out as rewards for good behavior. For many years, she regularly cut my hair while I sat on a chair in her basement and she even allowed us to roller skate on the concrete floor. Sometimes Fran would “kidnap” me for a day. Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor was a short walk from her home, and we would go together and she would buy me a sundae that was so big that I couldn’t finish it. Aunt Fran bought me my very first tea set, long gone now, but I remember it well.

Aunt Fran was a talented story teller. Whether the story was from the Bible or from her youth, Fran had a rare talent for making even the ordinary exciting. I particularly remember her re-telling of the story of David and Goliath. She played each role, picking up smooth stones and putting them into a pouch for her imaginary slingshot, and then carefully fitting each one into the pouch to slay the giant. A day with Aunt Fran was magical.

Mom and Fran were constant companions during the years that they shared at the Apostolic Christian Rest Home in Mansfield. Each had her own small apartment just across the street the other. Fran couldn’t see, and Mom had a hard time walking. Mom was Fran’s eyes, and Fran was Mom’s legs. They were a good team. They complemented each other; they needed each other. Even when Mom’s illness had progressed to the point where she could no longer truly care for herself, she wouldn’t leave Fran.

When cooking a big meal became too much for Mom several years ago, I began cooking Christmas dinner and transporting it to Mansfield, where we would serve up a feast in Mom’s small apartment. We always invited Aunt Fran, and she always came down the hall, usually bearing gifts, which were often treasures from her own apartment that she no longer used for herself. I use one such gift – a cast iron skillet – daily, and the lamp made of pink Himalayan salt glows in my study.

In the final year or so that Mom and Fran spent together, Fran’s hearing was failing, and her mind wasn’t working as before. Last Fall, I was staying a few days with Mom prior to bringing her home with me because Mom had grown too weak to get herself in and out of bed. She became very sick the night before we were to leave for my home, and I had to call an ambulance. I called Fran’s apartment, too, but there was no answer. Although I asked other family to let Fran know what had happened, she was convinced that I had stolen Mom away in the middle of the night without even letting them say goodbye. No amount of persuasion by myself or others involved could ever convince Fran that I had, in fact, wanted her to know what was happening and even had tried to reach her. As far as I know, Fran never forgave me. I had never known Fran to be angry, but angry she was. That night, I not only knew I was going to lose Mom, I lost my Franny, too.

Forgiveness is a lesson that took me more than 50 years to understand. I’m doing much better with it, but I still struggle with forgiveness regularly. It’s easier to understand it than to master it.

I struggle often to let go of the hurt that I cause myself with other people’s words and deeds so that I can just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they apologize or even feel bad for their “wrongdoing.”

I struggle to forgive myself for the times that I fail – whether it’s the dumb thing I did in second grade, or one of the times that I failed so completely that people I love won’t forgive me even though I’ve apologized. I struggle to let go of that pain, too, and just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they return that love or even acknowledge my existence.

When I am having those particular struggles -the ones where I struggle to forgive myself – I slip into a mindset where nothing I do is good enough. I don’t write because “who else would ever want to see it.” I don’t post pictures of my knitting or of my teacups because “people will just think I’m looking for attention.” I don’t play the piano because I’m rusty and I make a lot of mistakes, and I struggle to get on the treadmill because I’m slower than I was in 2016. Forgiveness is the key to happiness, if you ask me, because letting go of pain frees up so much energy to just enjoy life and to just enjoy living.

This morning I forgave Fran for being angry with me, and I forgave myself for not foreseeing that my failure to reach her myself would cause hurt so deep that it would destroy a 50-year bond. I allowed myself to weep, and to imagine Fran and Mom, reunited. I believe that Fran, moments after her death, was restored to perfect health with perfect hearing and a sharp mind, and that she understood perfectly when Mom told her that I had, in fact, tried to phone her.

I made it to the office this morning a little late, but pretty much on time. All day, my memories have kept spilling out my eyes and down my cheeks. I’m not one given to loud crying generally, but my eyes have grown very leaky since I reached “a particular age.” It’s one of many reasons why I don’t bother with makeup.

When I arrived at the office, my mail was piled on my desk. On the top of the pile was an envelope with a handwritten address. A bright red cardinal appeared on the postage stamp in the upper right corner – a lone pop of color on a black and white document. It’s said that the sighting of a cardinal is a message from a loved one in Heaven. I saw a post to that effect on Facebook yesterday, so it must be true!

I looked at the return address and saw Dalton, Ohio 44618. Home! No matter how long I am in Vermilion, which I love, my heart screams “home” when I think of Wayne County. In the envelope was a beautiful letter from a beautiful lady who has always been special. We haven’t seen or talked in more than 30 years, but today, just when I needed a lift, her letter landed on my desk on a morning when I was down, not only because my aunt died, but because the stubborn needle on the scale just won’t budge no matter how strictly I diet or how many miles I run right now.

She shared some of her memories of my parents which I had forgotten about, but which flooded back. She told me how much she’s enjoyed reading the little blog posts that I share. She talked about my writing about struggles and transparency and told me that I make a difference. She put a smile on my face.

I keep coming back to that cardinal on the stamp, and the idea of a message from a loved one in Heaven. The letter left Dalton, Ohio, a mere 50 or so miles away, on November 28^th and arrived here on December 4, a day when I wasn’t in the office. I didn’t personally receive the letter until I got to my desk on December 5- six days after the letter left “home.”. The pony express would have been faster! That dear lady closed her letter with “God’s grace and blessing on [my] journey.” In God’s perfect time, a letter landed on my desk at least 4 days late, carrying with it a message of love and hope and friendship. I feel like it also carried with it a message of forgiveness from Fran, and perhaps a “hi, I miss you,” from Mom, stuck to the letter with the glue on the cardinal stamp.

My friend from back home had no idea what I would be struggling with on THIS day on the day that she mailed the pretty Christmas card with the beautiful letter inside. She simply listened to the call she felt to reconnect. In doing so, she made a difference. In this day of instant messages and texts and emails, it is such a thrill to open a card or letter and read a message meant just for *ME*. Had she emailed, instead, I never would have received the message with the red cardinal at just the moment that I needed it.

It is possible to smile through tears. I know, because I’m doing it right now.

Love,

five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes

Posted by BecomingBetty

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. That’s one year. I buried my mom a year ago today – right about now. I have known a lot of loss and pain in my life. I’ve lost pregnancies, been divorced, buried a husband and my father. I’ve been through plenty of tough times. I thought I had a pretty good handle on grief.

I had the bright idea to start blogging my journey through grief on a day by day basis – I thought that I could somehow write a primer that might help others through coming to terms with the loss of their parent. I was so arrogant as to sit down and write out a timeline of topics that I would write about – the lessons that I would teach myself about grief on my timetable. I can laugh at the audacity now.

I didn’t write all of those blogs. I didn’t write many of them. I found the list not so long ago and threw it away.

When you are grieving, sometimes the minutes creep by so slowly that you think morning will never arrive. Sometimes you open your eyes and realize it’s Friday and you haven’t finished the Monday to-do list.

The only way out is through. I made it through five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. I made it through a year. I’ll make it through the next one, too, and the one after that. Such powerful lessons of love I have learned.

I didn’t write those blogs, but I filled journal after journal. One day, perhaps soon, I’ll read them through. Perhaps there will be something of value to share. Perhaps they’ll make good kindling for next summer’s campfires. Only time will tell.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes, for me at least, has been a time to process the changes. I’ve let go of so many ideas that no longer served me. When something irritates or annoys me, I ask myself if it would matter in a year. If not, I do my best to let it go and use my energy for something more productive than worry.

I’m back to singing silly songs at inappropriate times (but not in court). My smile isn’t a mask hiding sadness or depression – it’s real these days. I no longer have to stalk joy like it’s a rare animal in a dark jungle. Joy sits on my shoulder and sings again.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes – measure in love.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife

In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died

It’s time now to sing out
Tho’ the story never ends
Let’s celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends

Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love
Measure, measure your life in love

Seasons of love
Seasons of love

Songwriters: Jonathan D. Larson

Seasons of Love lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

My Life as a Plant

Posted by BecomingBetty

I just returned from a weekend camping in a place with absolutely no internet connectivity. My cell phone did not work. Zero bars. Nada. No Facebook. No weather. No checking my calendar or sharing pics on Instagram. The only purposes my handy dandy pocket computer served were alarm clock, music player and e-reader.

Our 18-year-old son is old enough, now, to spend a weekend without Mom and Dad here to manage him. He wasn’t alone, though. It was closing weekend of the musical theater show he has been rehearsing for all summer long. He’s a busy guy.

I had intended to ask my son to water my plants while I was gone, but I forgot, and by the time I arrived home, a few were just beginning to droop. I don’t generally keep indoor plants because I have a tendency to kill them, but for a few brief months every year, my back deck becomes a tropical paradise filled with a riot of colors. I “visit” the plants nearly every day. I pinch this one back here to encourage more blooms and I move that one a little to the left so that it gets more sunlight. Sometimes, though, I get busy and I forget a day of watering. Earlier this summer, a combination of a badly-planned container and failure of a drip-watering system led to a “dead” planter. I had my husband drill a bunch of holes in the bottom of an old aluminum tea kettle that was my mother’s, and I filled it with vines and flowers. It was lovely.

I went out to the deck one night to commune with my flowering friends and found the kettle plants wilted and dead-looking. The soil was crispy. The leaves were crinkly. The situation looked pretty hopeless. I cried a little. I had “built” that container as a tribute to Mom, who I lost in November, and in that moment, my irrational mind felt that I had let her down (again).

My husband said, “just throw the plants out and buy new ones.” It was tempting. Instead, though, I soaked the container thoroughly. I used my garden shears to cut back the completely brown parts and I moved the kettle from the hook where it hung “crooked,” as if pouring a cup of tea to a shelf where it could sit flat (and was much easier to water).

I began watching the kettle planter each day. On Day 2, it looked a little better. The leaves that had still been green, but were wrinkled instead of full and lush had filled back out. The extremities on the vines though, continued to wilt and grow brown. I pulled out the shears once again and cut back a little more.

By Day 3, the “core” of the planter was beginning to look healthy. There were no flowers anywhere, but the greenery was looking healthier.

By Day 7, new runners were beginning to appear from the vining plants. By Day 10, a few buds had appeared on the the plant with the tiny white flowers.

Now, two full weeks after the disaster, three of the four plants have made a brilliant recovery. They almost look as if they had never been nearly killed. I say “almost,” because if you look closely, you can see the scarring on some leaves. There are some brown parts, too – but if you view the kettle from a distance, you would never know that it was nearly a lost cause. The fourth plant, with it’s delicate leaves and tiny fuschia blossoms, though, isn’t faring as well as its neighbors. Perhaps it is the diminutive size of the leaves. Perhaps this plant wouldn’t have thrived in the same container as the other three even without my unintentionally-caused drought. It’s surviving, but it isn’t thriving.

While running on a narrow trail through the forest this weekend (without music), I began thinking about the plants in Mom’s kettle. When you neglect a plant, or when it goes through a crisis, it begins to shut down. It conserves precious resources for its core. It keeps its center alive for as long as possible. Humans do this, too.

It was just about a year ago when Mom told me that her cancer was “alive” again, and that she would need radiation treatments to knock it back down. In the weeks leading up to that day, I had celebrated my 50th birthday. I was joyful. I was celebrating life. If I were a plant, I would have been “blooming all over the place.”

As the illness progressed, it took her mind. My own soul began to wilt a little. My extremities began to wither – I stopped seeking out people and conversations. A leaf began to die here and there. She became sicker and died. People soon stopped sending cards and notes. The flowers people sent died. The houseplants that people sent to the funeral died, too. I suppose the fact that I hadn’t watered them had something to do with it. We entered the longest winter ever, and I had my own “dark night of the soul.”

With Spring came hope. I waited impatiently for the last chance of frost to pass so that I could plant new life in the containers that still held the wilted remains of last year’s flower garden. The trails called me, too. I began running again on paths through woods and meadows. I began smiling more. As the pots and kettles and gutters filled with living, blooming things began to fill my life with color, my mood lifted. I began reaching out. I even invited people long gone from my life for coffee and conversation. I, too, began to bloom again.

I recognize my plant-like nature. When there is a “trauma” in my environment, the “extremities” are the first to go. I stop doing the extra things that bring me into contact with others. I stop “vining” – reaching out for new places to connect and grow. I stop blooming – whether my blossoms are written words or photographs of pretty teacups.

My grief is not over. Most days I am happy, but once in a while I will forget for a moment that Mom is dead. I reach for the phone to call her, or spot something I would love to send her. Those moments are no longer enough to ruin me for the day.

By late Winter, if I were a plant, I would have looked pretty sad. I imagine I was there, with my long, flowing fronds, once lush and green, now hanging sad and brown. Someone would come along and offer a word or encouragement and my “core” plant would lap it up. At work, I would have an opportunity to help someone, and they showed their appreciation through kind words or referrals that brought me more and more to life. Each act of kindness – each “touch,” whether physical or through the magic of the internet – was like a drop of rain to my parched soul.

Running through the Mohican State Forest this weekend, I was in awe of the resilience of plants – especially the trees. In some spots, I was forced to climb tree roots as if they were a staircase. In other places, I saw trees that had been blown over completely and started to grow again in a new direction. Trees don’t give up and stop growing because there is a storm.

I don’t picture myself as a tree. I’m far too fickle. I’m more like a vining plant with long colorful fronds that blooms brightly once in a while. As I heal, my fronds are filling out and buds forming. as I hit “publish,” I will have put out my first blossom in a long while.

So, today I will be like a plant. I will bloom where I’m planted while sending out vines, seeking new places to experience and erupting in an occasional flower that, when wilted, sends seeds out to land in someone else’s waiting, fertile soil of their imagination.

It’s a Small, Small World.

Posted by BecomingBetty

My husband and I took our 17-year-old son to Walt Disney World at Christmas time this year. We toured Animal Kingdom and Disney’s Hollywood Studios together the first day. My husband decided to enjoy some relaxation while our son and I went to the Magic Kingdom and Epcot Center the second day. My son’s name is Matt. We rode several rides and watched several attractions together. I wanted to ride “It’s a Small World” – and he didn’t. We waited together through about half of the 45 minute queue, and when he made it abundantly clear that he would rather be eating lint, I allowed him to exit the wait when we came upon a gate that would allow him to escape.

I waited another 30 minutes alone, surrounded by people, and watched their interactions. The park was terribly crowded. It was still early in the day, so children weren’t having full on meltdowns yet, but it was lunchtime, and there were plenty of hungry little people. I started to feel a little sorry for myself, waiting all alone, and then I realized that I don’t need to make my son miserable to have a fabulous time.

I came to love that ride because my mother loved it. I came to love it more this year, riding alone, because it brought a plethora of beautiful colors and a whirlwind of motion into what had become a dark night of the soul- my journey of grief after Mom’s death in November.

I sat next to someone else’s child. He saw tears streaming down my face and said, “don’t cry.” I smiled and laughed through my tears and said back, “they’re happy tears.” I’m not sure that they were until that moment, but at the moment I made the claim of happiness, I was determined to be in love with that moment – and I was.

Winter in Ohio can be a hard time to create happiness – at least for me. The ground is covered with dirty snow or thick ice. The trees are barren. The birds are somewhere warm for the winter. It’s dark by the time I leave my windowless office to cook dinner, and the dining table looks out over the deck that is covered in dead leaves instead of containers overflowing with flowers in a hundred different hues.

My world got a lot smaller when Mom died. I lost the person I phoned when I needed to talk about what was bothering me. I lost my frequent destination for my Tuesday “day off.” My world got “small.” I wrote about losing her daily for a short while, until someone I don’t even know in “real life” said something that I decided made me feel like reading my words was a burden to other people. I stopped writing, and my world became still smaller.

I came to the realization a little over a week ago that my world had become too small – too dark. I set out to change it. A friend shared social media invitations to a class teaching African dance. I signed up, even though I knew that when I arrived, I wouldn’t know a single soul. I did something so far outside of my comfort zone – dancing – in public – in stretchy fabrics. I didn’t hide when, later in the evening, my friend showed up and started filming and sharing “live.” Just by being there, my world got a little bigger.

The following weekend, instead of sitting inside the house and doing the same old thing, I got my husband into the car and drove to the “Great Big Home and Garden Show.” We don’t have any home improvement projects on the agenda for this year, but I wanted to see the gardens. They didn’t disappoint. There were tulips and daffodils and hyacinths – a riot of color. There were trees in bud, and although I was in a giant building, I could almost feel myself outside beside a running brook in one of my favorite parks. Almost. I felt my world expand a little more.

When I moved to my present home nearly two decades ago, I never built a new network of close friends. While I don’t mean to minimize the importance of the male friends and mentors in my life, I’ve reached an age where I’m looking to build my connection with other women.

I don’t go out and “do” things with women. Now that I have become a “woman of a particular age,” – now that I am the involuntary matriarch – I see clearly how important that network of strong, wise women is to have. Only by reaching out and by sharing our joy and sorrow can we truly live a full life.

This is the “year of yes,” to quote Shonda Rimes. This is the year that I will grow my world by doing things that I don’t usually do – by saying yes to new experiences and learning new things. It is a small, small world – but it doesn’t have to be.

The cookie story

Posted by BecomingBetty

I haven’t felt much like Christmas this year. We decided to spend Christmas Day with Mickey Mouse this year since Mom isn’t here anymore and the family seems to be heading in 12 different directions this year. The only decorating I’ve done was to pull a small tree out of a box already decorated and “fluff” it a bit along with putting a strange crèche I found up on the piano. Five minutes. Done. Boom.

While going through a box of Mom’s things, I found a binder full of family recipes. I didn’t think I was up to the task of making the butter cookie cut outs I made with Mom or the chocolate molasses cookies that she sent us boxes of for every special occasion. I decided to make something emotionally easier – my aunt’s “dunkin platters.”

I assembled all of the ingredients on the kitchen island and went off to search for my kitchen aid mixer. I stepped into the storage area and found it right outside the door – not where I expected it to be – but very handy indeed. It was filthy, but I figured it must have gotten dusty when my husband blew in insulation a couple of weeks ago.

I put the full pound of butter on the stove to melt and then I set about cleaning up the dirty mixer. I grumbled under my breath that the last kid to put it away had left something sticky on the base. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but it didn’t want to leave. The bread hook and wire whip were in the bowl, which was odd because I don’t store them together. They looked nasty, too, so I stuck the, into the dishwasher. Next, I checked the mixer bowl for any stray dog hair, since we share our home with 3 of them now. Instead of hair, I found a layer of dead bugs in a variety of shapes and sizes. I shivered a little and then tried to shake them into the trash. They weren’t leaving. It took tons of hot water, soap and elbow grease to make that bowl sparkle. I was more than a little annoyed.

The beater was attached to the stand. I wanted to clean it, too, since it may have touched the bugs. It wouldn’t come off. As I wrestled with the mechanism, more dead bugs fell out of the mixer head. I pinched myself to make sure this wasn’t just a bad dream. Ouch! It wasn’t. It was then that I realized this wasn’t my mixer (thank goodness). It was Mom’s. Those bugs had probably been there for years.

I was still a little queasy. I wasn’t sure that cookies still sounded good, but the full pound of butter was now melted. Waste not, want not..

I have to eat strictly gluten free, so baking cookies required ordering certified gluten free oats and gluten free corn flakes, along with gluten free flour. These were not cheap cookies to make, and they required planning. I was committed now. I went in search of another navy blue kitchen aid mixer. It took a while, but I found it, right where my husband told me he had put it.

I followed the recipe, heated the oven, and lovingly plopped spoonfuls on the ungreased tray. 10 minutes later I found a single 11 x 14 inch cookie instead of 18 3-inch rounds. I decided I needed a smaller spoon. I eventually worked out the right size, timing and temperature for the gluten-free version of these treats. After baking for most of the afternoon, I put two on a plate and made a cup of instant coffee, because Mom always have me a cup of instant to dunk fresh cookies into.

I haven’t cried in a day or three, but when I put that coffee-covered cookie into my mouth, the dam burst. I cried until the tears ran down my shirt, and then I cried some more. It was then that it hit me – these cookies are Christmas for me. Mom made cut outs all year long. They weren’t special. I only got these once a year – on Christmas Eve – and I would eat the dunkin platters because they were my favorite. My aunt who made them is still living, but she has memory problems. I haven’t had one of these cookies in at least 20 years. Suddenly, I was 8 years old and sneaking into a corner with a handful of my favorite cookies before someone else could eat them.

I really needed that coffee. Those cookies are sweet! I guess my adult self prefers slightly less sweet, which is a good thing because even after giving some away there remains a huge box.

I’m leaking a little again. It’s alright. The best memories, sometimes, are the ones that run down your face.

My Secret Weapon

Posted by BecomingBetty

This morning as I was preparing for a contested court hearing, I couldn’t help but miss my mom. Mom was my “secret weapon.” She was proud when I became a lawyer. She always asked about my work. I didn’t give her much detail, but I told her about the kinds of cases I was working on. “I represent a mom in a nasty divorce,” or “I’m a guardian ad litem for 3 kids who love both of their parents.” Sometimes it was “I have a bankruptcy hearing and my client is really scared,” or even, “the attorney on the other side yells a lot and it makes me anxious.” Mom never asked for more details. She just said, “that sounds like hard work, but it’s important and I know you’re making a difference.”

The night before my very first contested hearing, I called Mom and told her that I was nervous. I didn’t really know what was going to happen. I was afraid of looking unprepared and making a fool out of myself as well as doing a bad job for my client.

Mom asked me what time my hearing was. She told me she was going to pray that my hearing would go smoothly. My hearing didn’t go perfectly, but it did go smoothly. I didn’t feel anxious or nervous. I asked the right questions. All-in-all it was a great success. My client ended up with a good result, and I gained confidence.

I called mom that night to tell her that the hearing had gone well. She answered, “I knew it would. I prayed.” We have had many of those “night before a hearing” conversations over the past seven years. She said a lot of prayers for people she didn’t know, and I had a lot of hearings that went smoothly, where I didn’t feel nervous and didn’t make a complete fool of myself.

I’m not claiming to have had divine intervention in my cases – but I can’t recall ever having a hearing go badly when my mom was praying. Mom’s prayers were my “secret weapon.” Mom believed in me, and knowing that she believed that I was “making a difference” gave me confidence. I want to be the kind of lawyer that my mom believed I am. Sometimes prayer changes things from the inside.

Ask Me Anything

Posted by BecomingBetty

I always thought I knew a lot about my mom’s life. She told scores of stories. I can tell you about the day that her old dog, Shep, died. I can tell you about the day my dad proposed to her – and that she didn’t answer him right away. I can tell you about the day that she received the phone call that there was a baby girl waiting to be adopted, and she could pick her (me) up that same day. I thought I knew a lot.

One day, my still-sharp 88-year-old mother’s brain changed. She couldn’t tell me the familiar stories anymore. During her final illness, on days she couldn’t quite place who iI was in her life, she asked me questions that led me to pose my own questions about what shaped her early life – questions that she could no longer answer.

I don’t know if my mother ever had a boyfriend before she married my dad at the age of 37. I don’t know what she dreamed of when she was a teenager. I don’t know a lot of things. Looking back, I don’t think that I know a single story about Mom’s life between ages 10 and 25 or so. There are still family members alive who might be able to tell me their own stories about her during those years, but nobody can tell “her” story.

As we cleaned out her apartment last weekend, I couldn’t help but wonder why she kept certain things. although I never saw her journaling, a part of me hoped that I would find a box of notebooks – diaries – hints at who my mom had been before she was my mom – and who she was when nobody was watching.

I wonder sometimes how much my children really know. Once in a while Matt, my youngest, appears shocked when he learns some bit of my history – some part of my life prior to the year 2000.

I wish that my mother had written her story. I do keep a journal most days, so my life from age 50+ is theirs for the reading if they should choose to to do some day. The years before, however, the years who made me who I am – flaws and all – are locked away in my head except for the little glimpses I tell in my stories.

Maybe some day I will tell my children to “ask me anything,” and record those answers in writing or on video. How I wish Mom had said to me, “ask me anything” in those months leading up to the end of her life. There are so many things I would love to know now – not that they would change a thing – but things that would help me to understand why things were the way they were.

There were things that were hinted at but never spoken. There were times when I asked Mom about first-hand memories that were vivid to me that, according to her, “never happened.”

I’m not certain that I have the courage to tell my children to “Ask me anything” and give them the answers while I am still living. Perhaps, though, the revelation of that information might help them to understand me and the experiences that made me who I am. Perhaps the joys and sorrows and traumas don’t matter to anyone else. Perhaps, though, my daughter, or my great-granddaughter some day far in the future would hear my memories and realize that I, too, questioned my worth at times, and that I spent 50 years or so worrying too much about what others thought.

Perhaps some day I will write my own story. Parts are interesting – other parts heartbreaking or downright boring. What might be boring to me might explain to my daughter why I am quirky about certain things. If she ever wishes she had asked me a certain question, perhaps she could find the answer.

So, kids, when I am gone, look for the name of the document and the password hint. In the meantime, ask me anything, and I’ll do my best to answer now – or in the future.

Day 9 – Out with the Old, In with the New

Posted by BecomingBetty

My mom wasn’t much of a housekeeper. Truth be told, I struggle with keeping a clean house myself. My brother and I didn’t have many chores growing up. I had to load and unload the dishwasher, and I vacuumed and dusted for a few pennies, but I always liked dusting. I still love the actual act of dusting and polishing wooden furniture (not that you would know it from the current condition of my home).

I was in my 20s the first time I ever saw someone wipe down the inside of their sink after washing the dishes. Sure, we cleaned the sinks in our house, but it was part of a weekly “heavy duty” cleaning – not something we did every time we used the sink!

My mom and dad were both pack rats. There were parts of the house that could have been featured on an episode of Hoarders. Both grew up in the aftermath of the Great Depression, and neither threw away something that they might need or that “might be worth some money someday.”

I searched Mom’s apartment for some important documents while she was in the nursing home. I never found what I was looking for, but I found drawer after drawer stuffed with the gifts that I had purchased or made for her in the past decade, many with tags still attached. She was “saving them for a special occasion,” I am sure.

I haven’t cleaned out Mom’s apartment yet. I’m dreading the task. I think the long Thanksgiving weekend is probably the time to dive in and get it done. First, I’ve had to learn to let go. Mom and Dad had an auction sale when they sold the family home more than a decade ago. They moved from a 3-4 bedroom house (depending on how you counted) with a full basement, garage and two sheds to a 2-bedroom apartment. Every nook and cranny was filled. I ended up with at least a truckload of furnishings during that move.

They moved into an even smaller place a few years later and I again was elected (by default) to take possession of the “family heirlooms” – mostly broken furniture and wedding presents that Mom had never used because she was “saving them for something special.” I never used them either, for the most part.

I’m enrolled in a program with a life coach, and serendipitously, October was all about organizing. I learned to winnow the mounds of stuff that I have accumulated over 30+ years of adulthood by asking 1) does it serve me, 2) do I love it, and 3) is it outdated or broken? I was shocked by the realization of how much “stuff” I was holding onto because it was important to someone else. The local Goodwill store was the recipient of multiple loads of bric-a-brac, furniture and books.

My mom crocheted hundreds of doilies. I have them all over my house and I still had boxes and boxes of them left when she died. At her funeral we laid them out in stacks on a table and invited guests to take them to remember her. I felt a catch in my throat “What if it makes me sad that I don’t have these anymore?” Then, I remembered that these doilies had been occupying a corner of my closet for several years in boxes – just like the things that Mom never, ever used. It gave me joy to watch friends and relatives sorting through the piles, smiling and admiring Mom’s handiwork.

My coach reminded us that the blanket that Grandma made isn’t Grandma. If it’s worn out and stained and you’re ashamed to have it on display, perhaps it’s time to take a photo and let it go. There are a few things that I will keep from Mom’s house. There are things that I have always found beautiful. They would bring me joy to have, and I would USE them. Those will come home with me. The rest will find new homes. Those things that hold special memories but would never be used will be photographed. I don’t need to fill my home with physical objects to fill it with beautiful memories.

Along with the old “stuff,” I am letting go of old ideas, old resentments and old grudges. Out with the old. Bring in the new. New life, new ideas. I’m never going to love cleaning. Perhaps one of those “new ideas” is that hiring a cleaning service would be a good investment – it will give me more time to blog.

Day 7 – The Keeper of Secrets

Posted by BecomingBetty

The word “secret” has so many nuanced meanings. Some secrets are precious – the “secret recipe,” for example. Then there is “The Secret,” the power of intention that some believe can make a strawberry ice cream cone appear without them lifting a finger to help themselves. Other secrets are neutral. I hold a lot of confidential information for my clients. The “secrets” aren’t necessarily dark or ominous – they simply aren’t anyone else’s business.

When Mom died a week and a half ago, her secrets died with her. At 50 years of age, I realize how little I know about my mother’s years before me. I know a few select stories, of course – the ones that she told regularly. Those are committed to memory, some word for word. There are other stories that died with her – good and bad. I now have to make peace with the things that I will never know. There are curious, half-formed memories from childhood that will now never be explained.

When I was a young girl, my questions were met with “we’ll talk about that when you are older.” As I grew into adulthood, the deflection became, “I’d rather talk about you,” or “I need to go to the store.” I didn’t press for answers because I didn’t want to upset Mom. Making Mom cry was something I tried to avoid at all costs. I love(d) my Mom.

Ready or not, I have a new position in life. I am the oldest female. I have become the reluctant matriarch, for want of a better word. Like my mom, there are things I don’t talk about – things that are a part of me and that have shaped me and thus have shaped the lives of my children.

Without living parents to think about, I have the freedom to bring “secrets” into the daylight where they can fade without worrying about hurting feelings. No, I won’t be writing a salacious “tell all.” My life hasn’t been “that” interesting.

I do believe, however, that it is time to write my own “book of secrets.” My secret recipes. My secret thoughts. My private past. Someday when I am gone, one of my children may wonder what experiences shaped me. I can only tell them my side of the story, or at least my memory of it. My story would never be a bestseller. Indeed, it would probably be boring to even my own children. Still, one day they may have questions about what experiences made me into who I am.

I haven’t cleaned out Mom’s apartment yet, but I’ve been through enough of her things to know that there probably isn’t a “book of secrets” waiting to be discovered. It’s a shame, but at the same time, it is also a relief. I can live my life authentically. I can choose not to wear the title of the “keeper of secrets.” I control the narrative. I can tell my story without being a victim of anything or anyone in my past. I can choose not to die with my words still in me.