The Challenge of Mothers' Day

SUMMARY: My mom. Missing her.

I discovered recently that there are different Mothers Days depending on where you live. In the U.S., it was two weeks ago. In the UK, it's today.

Interestingly, a friend just posted on her blog some Mom Musings. Much of what she muses about matches my Mom's situation. 

My family contained 5 kids and Mom and Dad. And the dog. Dad worked "at work" (not at home); Mom stayed home. It was a full-time job. Probably more than full-time. At some point in my teens, I had to start doing my own laundry, sometimes. It was a mystery to me at first, but really it was one of the simplest chores I probably had to do then. I'm sure I resented it.

Mom in her 50s, peeling apples and prepping them for apple pie or some other apple dish.
On the back deck. (note the sugar/flour/spices mixture in the measuring cup.)

So she did all that Laundry. Making sure we had meals 3 times a day (if it were a school day and we didn't like the cafeteria offerings, she might make us sandwiches; my favorite was cream cheese and jelly), vacuuming, dusting, more laundry, always in Mom mode for her kids--

My dad's photo of her. Probably in her 40s. 

Even when we camped, Mom cooked. Yosemite, early 1960s.
(Dad would do the tent, carry things, find firewood and chop it up--like that.
At least, that's how I remember it. Reality says that they probably 
helped each other.) (Dad's photo)

Oh. Plus cranking out all those babies. Plus Diapers. Sleepless nights. Breast feeding.
Starting in her 20s.

Nine years later...#5.

So I don't know how she managed to have time for gardening. But she made that time for herself.  Earliest I remember was at the place we lived when I was in 1st/2nd grade, the first house that my parents actually owned. She let me plant some seeds, too, and they grew. I was hooked. At the next couple of houses, she grew food, too.  This is how we learned that dogs figured out that cornstalks held ears of corn--and how to get at them.

Mom in her 30s, at that first house with part of her garden! (Dad's photo)
The house was new, so bare dirt ruled when we arrived.

(Oh--and she always had other activities, too! A Girl Scout almost her entire life,
she served as troop leader for two or three years, as well. And Environmental Volunteers.
And League of Women Voters. And more.)

I have no photos of her doing any of those things except I think one photo of her standing at the kitchen sink (*found some others in Dad's photos just now* ... and a few more of mine*). All those everyday things that it never occurred to me to photograph until much later in life. OK, film and processing were expensive, but if I had had any tiny thought about reminiscing about NORMAL life, not just vacations and activities, I'd have taken so many more.

Mom in her 70s. She never wanted to lick the beaters herself, 
so would offer to anyone around, particularly her kids.
She didn't have much of a sweet tooth. Dad did.

I gradually started taking more, the older I got. But by the time I was really into it, Dad had retired, she was mostly arthritis-ridden, and Dad had started doing most of the household tasks (cooking (as little as he could get away with, not always the healthiest, which Mom had made a priority), cleaning, laundry). He mowed the lawn and trimmed the shrubs and trees and really took good care of the yard until we finally convinced him to hire a mow-and-blow team in his 80s.

Mom was the reason we had flowers to stand in front of
for all the important school photos.

[Poor Dad, I just thought about this now: Thought he was retired, but nooooo--took over Mom's full-time job. At least there were no kids living at home any more.]

Dad at 70. 

But yard wasn't the same thing as garden.  Mom still tried to keep up in one small plot out front, probably with Dad's help, or some of us kids. She loved flowers and birds. I learned so much about all those things from her. Someone hung a hummingbird feeder in front of their living room window, where she could see it from her favorite chair. And the hummers gladly came.

I miss all of that. I miss her. And Dad.

Dad in the kitchen

Mom in the kitchen

1952 San Francisco and Yosemite

SUMMARY: From a GI's perspective on the way to Korea. 

Backfill: date

My dad loved Yosemite. But the first time he saw it was Armistice Day, 1952, while waiting for the final leg of his trip to the Korean War.  As he was a New York City born-and-raised young man, I'm doubtful that he ever went west of the Mississippi before that, and other than a year at college in Michigan, not certain [without going back through his personal history] whether he'd ever been much west of the state of New York. He was an explorer, though: Discovered the mountains and hiking and climbing and camping in late high school and more in college and never went back to city living. Never one to be shy about travel, or any suggestion of somewhere new and different to explore, would get him moving.

Not sure that he felt that way about Korea, but-- bypassing that--

The draft scooped him up in 1951, and in November of 1952 he began the long journey to Korea--stopovers in Chicago and Denver and Oakland to refuel the plane before landing finally in San Francisco for a two-week layover in a camp in Petaluma.

Mom kept all of his letters home, and decades later he assembled them with commentary into a book.  Some excerpts from that first week in California:

We arrived in Frisco via Greyhound Bus from the airport. We bought our bus tickets up to camp, and then walked down Market Street at about 8 A.M. Finally gave up on walking, after being stopped by a number of people who said we really should take a tour to see the city [1], and bought some sight-seeing tour tickets. While waiting for the tour start time we went for a ride on a cable-car. The ride went from Powell and Market streets over the top of Nob Hill, by the Mark (Hopkins), through the edge of Chinatown and then back again. Had views of Alcatraz, the Oakland-Bay-Bridge, and some very nice houses.

Got back in time to take the tour, and had a pretty good time. Saw a lot of the Sights, and a lot of Real Estate. I wasn't impressed by San Francisco's zoning restrictions and rental policies as we were told of them by the tour bus driver [2]. And prices; wow!! Twelve to fifteen thousand (depending on location) for a five room attached bungalow.[3] And there isn't much room in either front or back. The plots are usually 50x70, or smaller.

The tour is over and we're having lunch on Fisherman's Wharf at DiMaggio's (Filet mignon). 

...

[after settling in at the camp]

...

We were fortunate, Armistice Day was on Tuesday, so we were given passes from noon Saturday until 0800 Wednesday. We spent those days touring: saw Muir Woods, Yosemite, and Devil's Postpile among other places.

He likely has more photos of this trip, but immediately at hand I have only this--

"Road to Yosemite Armistice Day 1952"

I'm not sure where exactly this photo was taken, but the road to Yosemite no longer is one lane without guard rails.  I remember Dad saying that parts were still unpaved. 

Dad told me in 2015 when we were discussing his photos:

On the Armistice Day Weekend in 1952, four of us GIs rented a car to go to Yosemite and Devils Postpile. The roads into Yosemite (Rte 120) and through Tioga Pass were single lane roads, with places to turn out to let other cars go by. Included with this is a photo showing a short stretch up in the high country.

I believe that the Sierra Nevadas made a lasting impression on the man who had already climbed a few of the highest peaks in New England. The eight highest there range from 5,000 to 6,300 feet (1520- 1920 m) above sea level. But the fifty highest in the Sierras range from 8800 to 14500 (2680-4420 m) --none more than about 200 miles from sea level at the coast).

I think he couldn't wait to get back to the Sierras and Yosemite when we moved to California less than 10 years later. And again about 8 years after that. We went many times as a family.

==================

Footnotes

[1] they must've been in uniform

[2] my dad's frustration and anger about ill treatment of black people was well established by then--and not too many years later that caused him (a white male) to resign from a job he loved otherwise.

[3] Today, the median price for a home in San Francisco is $1,310,500. I'm not sure what Dad meant back then by a "5-room" bungalow--was that bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, and--?  And I don't know what size home today's median price will get you, but likely not much more than a 2-or-3-bedroom attached house with little or no yard.



>>  Visit the Wordless Wednesday site; lots of blogs. << >>  Visit Cee's Photo Challenge blog; lots of blogs. <<

Memories and Grief and Joy

SUMMARY: Dad. And Mark Lynch.

Yesterday, Dad died 5 years before.  The day sits so clearly in my mind, lurking with the things about it that I would absolutely have done differently, but also with relief about a couple of crucial things that I had been afraid that I wouldn't have been able to do for him that I did. So--a wildly emotional day. Plus, he died. So, yes, laser burned into my mental memory book.

And that's all on that for now. But it brings up this:

My Archaelogy/Anthropology prof at Santa Clara University, Mark Lynch, was killed by a drunk driver after he graded my final but before I picked it up.  Yes, relevant--

holding this space hoping for ok to post painting of Mark lynch

I "dropped out" of college after my junior year, struggling with what I really wanted to major in. Then I got a dog, bought a house, got married--and a few years after I left college, I went back. Santa Clara accepted me, thank goodness. [that might be another story]. As a Senior, which was also Thank Goodness, because SCU has specific breadth requirements for each year (frosh, soph, jr, sr) to earn your degree, so that, as a Senior, I needed only one of each category and could concentrate on my major classes.

I don't recall which breadth category Anthropology fit into, but that's where I headed. The first class I picked sounded interesting but after one day of the prof's dull, dull, droning delivery, I knew that I couldn't handle it for a full quarter. That he had only maybe 10 students in his class said something, too.  

That left me stuck: My other classes were already set, so I had to find something in essentially the same time slot, and I believe that left only one choice, and of course now I had missed the first class session.

I went anyway, to ask whether he'd add me (the class was listed as full so I couldn't join without that).  And his classroom overflowed with more folks than there were places to sit, lining all the walls. Many more than what he was allowed, but he added everyone, even late me. AND he remembered everyone’s names right away. I don’t know how he did it--must’ve been 50 people in that class. An amazing man.

So, I know that he graded my final because grades were posted (yes, an A).  He put all graded papers and tests into a cube outside his door, but I never did get my final--everyone else’s were in the bin--and I’ve often wondered whether he had kept it on his desk or wherever he was working because I knew all the material well and it was essay(s), and so I had a lot of fun writing it while still delivering the goods. I felt that he'd be OK with that and maybe even enjoy it and maybe he had held onto it a bit for that or had thought that he might see me again to say something.

He was so young.

I had mostly not bothered my profs through all the years of college except occasionally for a specific class-related question, but I had gone in to talk to him a couple of times about some fiction I was trying to break through on (Anasazi-related). Because, in class, not only could he be funny, but could elicit deep emotions with his fabulous descriptions of life and death and the effects of European colonization here in the western states. So I was quite comfortable chatting with him about fiction and about Anasazi and related topics and whatever unrelated topics we went into. Not that we were likely to become real friends, but he wasn’t that much older than I was at that point --I don’t recall exactly--or the same age (I was 27ish). But, still. 

I learned about his death while listening to the car radio--and then I was driving on US-101 bawling my eyes out.

I cried over several days, couldn’t stop thinking about it at night when all those thoughts you don’t want come calling. Then, one night, I dreamed that i was sitting on the outside steps of the building where his class was, head down on my knees, crying again. Suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, and I looked up, and there he was. He said, you’re crying? And I was stunned, just staring at him being there. And then he said, “About me? Oh, there’s no need for that” followed by words that I don’t remember exactly any more but something along the lines that he had had a happy life and he’d be honored if people would remember the fun that he had and the education that he gave and be happy about all of that for him. And I nodded and he smiled his familiar smile and trotted on down the steps and away.

It helped me so much when I woke, even though I know that it was my brain inventing things--I think it was inventing a story for myself that I could grasp to not wallow in grief and to, indeed, remember him cheerfully.

So, yay, brain.

(See end of post for links related to Mark Lynch.)

I haven't had dreams like that about either of my parents.  I try to remember the same things for them, though.  But these anniversaries are hard.

Photos from family Thanksgiving 6 and 7 years before they died --
because they were always a couple

And a final note: Links related to Mark Lynch

• The Alameda -- see "A campus divided"
• Obituary
  
• Wow! This page has a painting of him done by another of his students
• Article with 3 mentions of excavations he did at Mission Santa Clara
  
• "Site Artifact Density and the Effectiveness of Shovel Probes"
  
• Articles he published -- he did work in Africa, too
  
• "Ph.D. in anthropology in 1978. Mark Lynch was an outstanding young scholar who was greatly interested in the method and theory of archaeology especially as ..." ...  I can't get at this text without buying or renting it, but I wish I could.

The Pusher: The First Visit is Free

SUMMARY: Dad and me and big-people books and science fiction

My parents started me out very young with fairytales and magic. This one is still one of my all-time favorites.

When I was a somewhat older kid (um, somewhere between 3rd and 6th grade, but I think on the younger side of that), my dad took me to the UPstairs part of the library where all the growed-up books were and turned me loose on Bradbury and Heinlein and I was hooked from the start. He got a good talking to from the librarian about how kids would be much happier in the big beautiful bright downstairs library filled with kid-type books. Dad said I could read what I wanted to read. Thanks, Dad!

The library in question--  it's still there. I thought it was one of the most special buildings in the world!

I did love the downstairs library, too, a huge room of wondrous books. From Curious George to the (at the time) new Tripods trilogy, all good. (This article has a couple photos of the children's floor--don't recall exactly what it looked like when I was there, but I remember plenty of sunny windows.)

But upstairs had a whole lot more books with a whole lot more pages! So, shame on the librarian... and now I have several bookcases (of the 7-foot-tall variety) filled with fantasy and science fiction books. Can definitely blame that on Dad, too.

Parents' living room. There are 3 bookcases out of sight to the left, 2 to the right, and several in the family room and in parents' room and in various other rooms. Books. Lots.

Living room from the far end. Dad, disavowing all knowledge of  books. 
(You'd hardly know it...  that the cancer knocked him down completely
over the next 2 weeks and then he was gone.  Dad, who could never resist silly faces or gestures.)

Dad Gone Four Years Today

SUMMARY: Still aches like yesterday.

Reposted and edited from Facebook.

He was an amazing man. Here he is on the day he received diplomas for both his Bachelor's and Master's degrees in math and physics [after serving in Korea and now with wife and kid]. When the de rigueur person shaking the grads' hands asked when he was going to get his 3rd diploma, he answered, "Two is enough for one day, sir."

I have no idea what the fist was for (way before the Mexico City Olympics). "Nerd Power"? Unless I find more info somewhere, we'll never know.

Mother's Day 2006

SUMMARY: The many expressions of mom--

-- She could express herself so well with just her face. Wish I had more photos of all the variations, but, well, I've got what I've got.


Never posted these photos. Remembering Mom and Dad.

Stamps

SUMMARY: A hobby for the whole family.

My dad started collecting stamps as a kid. I vaguely recall that his dad started him on it, but that memory is unclear.

Dad was an enthusiastic-- although not "serious"-- collector of stamps from around the world. He loved the "5 million unsoaked unsorted" stamp deals, but did keep current with US mint stamps of normal values (not high values). He collected first-day covers for a long time, too, and all sorts of random things. He had dozens and dozens of small boxes and albums to hold his collection.

He got me my first stamp album when I was in kindergarten. I've done only US stamps and got serious--heh-- briefly for several years in the '70s and tried to keep up with *all* current US mint stamps. Used to stand in line for ages at the special post office window they used to have in the Willow Glen area just for collectors. Ordered everything available for each current year from the US postal service (which included things like hunting license stamps). Although I haven't put anything in an album in probably 30 years, I still buy extras and stick them in an envelope for "later". Hard habit to break.

My dad started using his stamps as postage after hoping for decades that they'd eventually be worth something, and I wonder how many people noticed the wayyyy old mint stamps that he used on envelopes to them?

Just before he died he sent off what was left of about 10 large cartons of albums and stamps to a dealer, for which we were paid a pittance. (Oddly enough, stamp collecting is no longer of interest to as many people, according to the few dealers who are left--used to be able to find stamp/coin dealers in little shops all over the place.  Here's an interesting read on how many collectors there are.)

When going through parents' stuff after Mom's death, I found a small camera with a card still in it, so I loaded it up. It included a few photos that dad had taken of some of his stamp things as he packed them up to ship. So, here they are. I have no other photos related to dad and his stamps, despite all the many times that he worked on his collection on the dining table.

Glassine envelopes with extra stamps or first-day covers or what-not:

A carton being packed up to go.

Magnifying "glasses", magnifying glass in box, more glassine envelopes, special envelopes...

 The open shelf all the way across is random stamp things and albums--

More cartons as he packed them up.

All About Dad

SUMMARY: Not really, because how can you say it all, there's so much?

Father's Day again.

I set down this very rough brain dump months ago; we pared it down a lot for his obituary in the paper.

Bob, before he met Mom:

Bob was born in Queens, NY and lived there until college. He mastered the subways and buses at an early age and loved the Museum of Natural History and the New York Public Library. At the age of 12, he entered Brooklyn Technical High School “as one of the smallest boys” with an Aeronautical major. He graduated “as one of the tallest.”

Bob attended Hillsdale College in Michigan for 2 years, followed by two years of study at the New York State College of Forestry in Syracuse, pursuing his love of the outdoors learned in part through four summers working as a counselor and caretaker at Old Oak Farm. After this, he worked briefly as a rodman on a survey crew.

Most importantly, in Syracuse he joined the Syracuse Outing Club, in which he participated enthusiastically and met the equally enthusiastic, intelligent, and attactive camper and hiker Louise. They knew each other through the Club for a while before starting to date in mid-1951.

Very shortly thereafter, the government called on Bob to serve in Korea during the war, from 1951 until 1954.

Within weeks of his return to the states, he and Louise married.

After that, at SUNY Albany, Bob graduated with a BS Cum Laude in Math and an MS in Physics.

Mom, before they met:

Louise was born in Massena, NY. Several generations of her relatives and ancestors had lived in that part of the state.  She joined Girl Scouts in 1938, and participated in one form or another until her last few years.

Her family enjoyed outdoor activities, particularly canoeing and camping in central and northern New York state. Birds fascinated her, and she could be found with binoculars to her eyes and a Peterson’s Field Guide in her pocket for decades, anywhere she traveled.

At Syracuse University, she earned BA and MA degrees in Early Childhood Education. Although she dated other students there, she fell in love with the “romantic” and “funny” Bob Levy.

After graduation, she taught schools elementary school for a few years.

After they married:

They moved to Albany so that Bob could complete his degrees. Louise became pregnant right away, which began her long career as mother, homemaker, and community volunteer.

After SUNY Albany, Bob and Louise took a summer job managing John’s Brook Lodge in the Adirondacks. Both enjoyed it. After the summer, they moved to Newcomb, NY for Bob’s new job as a high school science teacher.  Two years later, they received an offer to manage Adirondak Loj in Lake Placid, NY, and worked there for a year and a half.

At that time, with three children, Bob looked for a better opportunity. Systems Development Corp. offered to train him in the new industry of computer programming with the potential of a job offer if he did well. So they packed their belongings in their Chevy Carry-all and drive to Santa Monica, CA, which seemed like a world away from their families in New York.  Bob got the job and stayed with SDC through a move to Colorado Springs, CO.

He accepted an intriguing job at IBM in Poughkeepsie, developing systems for the yet unreleased IBM 360. So with 4 kids and another on the way, they sold their house and drove back to New York. 

Louise began finding time to volunteer with the Girl Scouts, including as a troop leader.

Bob’s IBM job took them to Cupertino, CA, in 1968, where Bob worked for a variety of technical firms as a software developer, then briefly as a machinist along with Louise as an admin, before retiring. They lived in the same house their until their deaths.

Bob took an interest in local politics, served on citizen committees for the Cupertino City Council, and once ran for Councilman.

Louise joined the League of Women Voters in 1973 and remained active as Secretary until her last couple of years.  She also joined the Environmental Volunteers, for over 30 years helping school children to understand and enjoy our natural environment in the classroom and on hikes.  She volunteered for a while as a school librarian.  Louise attended Union Church and sang in the choir there from 1968 until her death.

Bob and Louise loved to explore this country, to hike, to camp, and to canoe and, starting from their days together in the Outing Club until very late in life, they kept it up weekend after weekend and summer after summer, introducing their 5 children to the delights offered out in nature and at parks and museums across most of the states in the US. They devoted months together researching, writing, producing, and selling some of the first detailed trail guides for Rancho San Antonio and other area parks.

Together, they also taught First Aid classes for the Red Cross and volunteered at polling places during elections.  They enjoyed genealogical research and wrote, transcribed, assembled, and published a variety of books about their ancestors. Through their efforts, they made contact with, and kept in touch with, many distant relatives.

----

They are survived by their five daughters, sons-in-law, six grandchildren, Bob’s cousin Carol Anne Munson [note June 2017: Who died earlier this year] and her children, and Louise’s niece, grandniece, and greatgrandniece. 

💔

This barely scratches the surface of the places they went, the things they did, the people they met, the impact they had.  And doesn't dive under the surface of who they were.

Dad loved being a Dad (almost always) and loved giving people things. He had so much fun at Christmas, for example.  Christmas will never be the same.

Father's Day...

SUMMARY: notes from facebook June 6, '16

Backfill: Didn't post this until August 2, 2016

A friend posted on Facebook today:

Just realized for the first time in my life, I don't have to worry about Father's Day plans.
That was a blow.

And I replied--

I've been going through exactly the same thing this year. And we are not alone [based on other comments I've seen on FB lately]. 

I've been seeing or hearing things that might have turned into nice father's day gifts (such as activities), and then -- oh, right. 

I empathize. It's interesting how Father's Day was no big deal--I did try to do something most years, even just a card--but now, this year, it looms large.

Several additional people noted on this post, "Same here," or the equivalent.

And then, of course, this reminder from another person:

25 years for me this year...and it still will be sad

Fathers are both not forever and forever.

I look a lot like my dad.

Last night a year ago last night a year ago today

SUMMARY: Oh my little Booster. And everyone else.

This is not a happy post.

Today is Monday.

Saturday night I dreamed. I hurried from place to place in the yard and then out into the neighborhood and then back to the yard to places that I suddenly remembered existed there although they hadn't necessarily existed before, searching desperately, knowing she was gone but wanting to find her.

A year ago yesterday, I put together all the pieces that I had stupidly not realized the significance of and insisted that we had to see the vet TODAY. We saw the vet. Everything was completely normal as far as the vet could tell. Took blood and urine samples, and then we went home for the weekend.

In two weeks, she'll be dead.

Saturday night, I dreamed. I asked the neighbors if they had seen her. I said that she'd been looking for a place to hide away from everyone and it could be anywhere, any dark, quiet, out-of-the-way spot. I knew that she was gone, but I wanted to know where she was, even though it was too late.

A year ago in 48 hours from now, I learned that what the blood test found was that every indicator of a body in full destruction existed therein. All that we had left was to learn what it was that was killing her.

Yesterday, after dreaming, I woke up and cried and cried and cried.

A year and one month ago: Tika died.

A year and two weeks ago: Dad's cancer, thought to be in remission, the doc comes into the room and explains that it's determined to be stage 4 metastasized colon cancer. In several places in his body, liver, lungs, kidney...

Today I'm crying. Luke is trying to hug me.

Saturday night, I dreamed: I knew where Boost had hidden the last time she died, but she wasn't there, although I kept looking there over and over.

In two weeks, I tried to stay up with her all night, would doze off slightly and she'd be gone and I'd hurry outside to find her, and she'd be slowly, droopily, examining some dark hidden spot or other. I'd say her name, and her ears and head would come up, and she'd come back inside and lie down with me in the living room again.

In four days, the vet comes into the room and says, it's bad. It's the worst it could be. It's stage 4 metastasized cancer. In several places in her body. liver, lungs, kidney, lymph nodes...

A year and two weeks ago, Dad opted to try some mild chemotherapy, on the advice of his oncologist and doctor, since he had other issues that anything more intense his body likely couldn't handle.

A year and two weeks ago, Tika's ashes in their decorated wooden box are ready, and I bring her home again.

Saturday night, I dreamed: I kept looking at that little concrete pad under that little shelf next to the stairs, somewhere where neither the dogs nor I ever went, a cool spot out of the sun, away from the traffic and the activity of life.

I opted not to try to treat Boost. It was so advanced and her blood count so low that simply doing a biopsy could kill her. And I'd been through Remington's cancer. And yet, when a tiny glimmer of hope arises, in six days, I take her to the specialists on the chance that they might have some other news. But they don't.

In about 2 months, my dad is so miserable with the chemo side effects, and there's so little indication that it's doing anything, that he elects to stop treatment. He is adamant that he won't die at home. He doesn't want to be a burden to his family and he doesn't want them to see him die. We'd be fine with both, but he isn't. There are no options, however.

In two weeks, when I doze off near morning, she goes to that concrete pad that I'm now seeing empty in my dream, away from the traffic and noise and the responsibilities to people who love her, and slips away, alone and on her own terms.

Four months from yesterday, after a 911 emergency call involving the dying body giving up its blood, the ambulance took Dad to the hospital just for overnight, because the in-patient hospice unit had a bed for him and would be able to check him in there in the morning. The emergency room doc agreed to admit Dad with just the care of keeping him comfortable and out of pain until the morning, not to treat beyond that, per his own signed wishes. We tell Dad, although pretty sure that he can't hear us or understand us or even knows that we're there, that we'll be back in the morning.

In the living room, in two weeks I fall asleep from exhaustion even though I'm trying trying trying to stay up because I know that she's dying, I know it, and maybe today. I don't know why I want to be with her at the end, but I do, I don't want her to be alone ever. And the vet is coming in the morning to help her out of her pain. And she has a different idea.

At home, in fourth months I fall asleep easily for the first time in weeks, knowing that he won't die at home and that that was his wish, since I'd been afraid he'd die at home and I had known that it was coming, maybe today, maybe tomorrow, but we were out of time. At one in the morning, while we slept at home, the call comes. In his quiet hospital bed, away from the traffic and noise and the responsibilities to people who love him, he slips away, alone and on his own terms.

Tika, Boost, Dad. It has been a hard year for me and this past week began pummelling me in all the raw places that have barely begun thinking about a start on healing.

In two weeks the vet will come and take Boost away for cremation. In four months the mortuary will come and take Dad away for cremation. Tika's ashes are already on my shelf with Jake and Remington.

In a year, I will remember everything, all the details, all the sounds and expressions and suffering and release, and it will be today, and I will be crying because it's only yesterday.

Saturday I dreamed, and even awake, it's so hard.

Simple Thoughts About Hard Things

SUMMARY: Simply written.

This is the year when everything changed.

Maybe not everything.

But it feels as if it were everything important.

My old dog who knew how to do the dog jumping and climbing game very well is gone. Because she was old and sick.

My younger dog who also knew how to do it very well suddenly became very, very sick with bad things growing inside her that killed her very, very quickly.

And both of these girls could walk and run without a six-foot holding thing between me and them and still be good girls.  And would come when called (mostly anyway). And knew how things worked in the world and loved to be out in the world and checking everything out. Now I have dogs who know or do none of these. And I miss my girls so much.

My father, whom I have known for more than half a hundred years--that is, my entire life--had bad things growing inside him, also, which also killed him quickly and also made him angry because, being human and not dog, he knew what was happening and didn't like it much.  And he knew so very very much that I can't even begin to say what.

The set of bones running down my back have decided to go in different directions than they should go and do other things that make the sensing-feeling things in my legs and back hurt so much that some days I can barely walk. Or sit. Or stand.  Lying down is usually pretty good and I like that part. But it's hard to do that and do any of the other things that I want to do--hard to do almost anything, in fact, when lying down.

So my dream of ending working for money and traveling the world and walking through and up and down many forests and hills and mountains and very dry places seems to be fading. And of taking photos of many creatures and places and things from many points of view such as lying down or on my knees or back seems to be fading. And of playing that dog jumping and climbing game until I turn eight times ten years old is fading. And also of staying in this house in this area for several more years until I have carefully thought things through seems like it cannot happen. Which means that I must be faster at getting rid of many of the many things in this house, and that is something that I find hard to do.

So. I am getting up every morning and doing the things that I must do and finding ways to still enjoy life and trying to slowly come to know the truth of my life and what I need to be doing within me, not just in my head.

These are all hard ideas to grab. And yet, in many ways, it is quite simple.  To help me think simply about it all, I have written this story-thing using this thing that helps people to write using only words from a simple word set*. It is hard to be simple.  Maybe that is why I feel so tired so often.  Trying hard to be keep things simple. Being simple is hard. And so many simple things are hard.

------

*I thank xkcd for creating this Simple Writer thing.   Here is a good one of his funny drawings that I think uses the simple words.

("The thrower started hitting the bats too much,  so the king of the game told him to leave and brought out another thrower from thrower jail.")

I have so many things to say to myself that I want to track--

SUMMARY: --and yet they stay in my head.

About my current dogs.

About my past dogs.

About my friends' dogs. Who are getting older as I'm not doing agility and not seeing them and their new dogs whom I don't recognize and whose names I don't know and I don't know what they're like. And

About agility and missing it and not missing it.

About pain and pain and pain, inside and out.  About still finding pleasure in life.

About back surgery being very likely in my very near future. And being very afraid.

About my dad who is gone. And still have no words.

About good friends and good times--I don't have many close friends, and I'm not excellent at staying in touch, but somehow we manage.

About Trail Watch Academy coming up and trying to walk 10,000 steps a day and seldom being able to do so.

About Disneyland! In 4 weeks and very excited because I love going there yet with trepidation because trips in January and May were excruciating.  But still wanting to go.

About truly feeling like I'm working towards being Old, not merely Older Than Before.

About beautiful weather and terrible drought and even with that, the survival of civilization with no zombies at all. So far.

About photography and loving it.

This was supposed to be my daily diary of my life with my dogs. Now it is just rather a personal version of Pinterest.

OK, I have another post to do, so on to that.

Memories of Lean-tos

SUMMARY: Not really Wordless Wednesday

My father is gone. We've been going through everything in the house with my mom's help.

Ah, the Adirondacks, where they met and spent their honeymoon and managed two lodges and took us kids hiking and camping. Lean-tos are a big part of that memory.

If you ever read Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, these are the huts he refers to.

Found this watercolor of a lean-to that my mom used to display. Source unknown.

Here's mom camping at a lean-to when she and dad were dating, Dad behind camera.

All of us out for a day hike (plus at right a lanky neighbor teenager sometime-babysitter), Dad behind camera again and his usual giant pack among us.

Dad before we all arrived, not in a lean-to, but undoubtedly near one.