This Day

My sister's daughter died seven months ago today.

It's hard for people whose very loved ones have died. They don't celebrate the day, but they can never forget it, and they might need to mention it or in some way mark it. I don't mean mark it on a calendar. I mean just to send out into the air, somehow, the awareness of what happened on this day. Maybe that will relieve some of the heart's aching.

I always mark the day of Wayne's death, not a celebration, but a remembering. Can't help it. And usually I mention it--here mostly. Sometimes that day can slide by without mourning. Sometimes.

So today I mark Samantha's passing. I think of her. I remember her goodness, her cleverness, her wit, her uncommon good sense, how easy she was to be with.

I think of her family--her mom and dad, her brothers and sister, her husband and children--who miss her but who are living this day, as we all must, as if it were any other day. And I can hope the day slides by for them.

Evelyn

Yesterday I had a long conversation, in person, with my friend Evelyn. We quite thoroughly dealt with many subjects. We settled issues, spoke of health, her very happy marriage (her third, his second) to Bennie, family doings, our age--she's older than me. Hallelujah.

Then we spoke of canning. Go figure. Well, it's because of how she and Bennie spent their morning. They went out and picked I don't remember how many bushels of grapes.

Oh, you'll be making grape juice, I said.

Yes, I'll juice them.

You're ambitious, I said, feeling like the slacker I no doubt am.

They used everything in their garden, she said. Everything.

Wow, and me with no garden either.

She makes green tomato pickles, for instance, and it's a way to use them, not waste them. And she told me how.

Slice the little green tomatoes, throw in a jalapeno, a clove of garlic, some dill, salt, water--just like making dill pickles. I used to make plenty of those, I add here.

And their kids love them. Oh, we hardly get to eat any of what I can, she said.

When they, the kids, come through town, they raid the place for Evelyn's home-canned goods. The fruit, the tomatoes, the salsa, you know.

I said I haven't canned much in years. Except, I do still make jam.

Which turned Evelyn to jam. She makes jalapeno jam (I know there should be a tilde over the n in jalapeno, but I have lost the power to type the tilde, and I'm sick about it). And because their squash overran their jalapeno pepper plants this year, they used all of their neighbor's jalapenos. At his invitation.

Evelyn makes jalapeno jam, and she told me how good it is. Then she said she'd like to give a high five to her mother, who taught her to do all these provident things like gardening and canning. Then we talked about her 94-year-old mother, who now lives in a "place" in Idaho Falls. Dementia, Alzheimer's. You know.

And not that I don't care about that story, it's just one we all know something about.

And I'd like to get back to the jam. It sounded like something I would love. Evelyn said she'd bring me some. Yay!

I said if she would do that, I'd bring her a poem I wrote about canning apricots. Obviously, I will be getting the best of the deal. If she remembers. I hope she remembers. It wouldn't be good to call and remind her. Would it?

So, about the poem, because this post is longer than anyone I know will read, I'll put the poem on Carol's Corner.

Just A Few Things

Today I saw someone I hadn't seen in more than 20 years, someone we knew in Caldwell. She did not know Wayne had died. Seemed shocked to hear it. I understand. I'm still shocked by it.

Today marks 7 years, 9 months.

I used my J C Penney charge card today, something I rarely do. Really. Rarely. It's still in Wayne's name. No reason to change it, I guess.

As I returned home this afternoon and walked through my house, feeling its comfort and security, I said, "This is a good house." And I thanked Wayne for it.

Tell me why

Recently I've had occasion, make that several occasions, where I've been asked my date of birth. I have responded by giving my date of birth this way: 9-2-40.

Not every time, but almost, the person--nurse, clerk, receptionist, whatever--has then asked: "Is that 1940?"

Why?