A Question

Yesterday was Spring officially. Nasty day. Today a bit windy, but beautiful. Ah, give thanks.

And
Yesterday I met a woman who told me of her mother--95 years old, in a nursing home in Everett, Washington. If I told all that she said, this post would be too, too long. So I'll skip to the important part, important for me.

Her mother had pneumonia not long ago, so this woman (I'll call her Lyla) packed up to go see her mother because she knew it would be the last time. But her mother got well. Lyla's sister called and said, "She's home; she's fine."
Lyla unpacked her bags and stayed home.

In her telling, she seemed a bit impatient with her mother for not dying at that time. I'm guessing she loves her mother, but she didn't sound like it, and she didn't say so. She didn't say she was glad to have her mother for another while.

Here's my question: does a person reach a point where she is too old to care about? Do her children just think she ought to die because, after all, what good is she doing anyone? Is it the expense of the nursing home? Is it that they have forgotten what their mother did for them?

I think of my Aunt Allie, 92, and feeling like she is no good to anyone. But the other thing she told me last night was how good Brett is to her. Brett, her son who lives there in her home. She said she is sometimes overwhelmed with how kind he is to her.

I love him for that. And I told her so. I also told her he should be good to her.

This is a serious question and one I will obviously think about again, because I will get old. I think. Maybe I hope that when my children tell a story about me, it will be clear that they love me. And I will say of them how good they are to me.

Well, I wrote this here, although I'm pretty sure no one will read it except a couple of my children. But I do think it may be a rather universal question.

It's Still Winter, You Know

It's March. The 13th. I get thinking it's Spring, or should be.

But today, like yesterday, is dreary. No sun. No sky to praise for its blue color. Chilling winds. Spits of rain now and then. It makes a person weary.

It's especially difficult after the gorgeous weather we had last week. It was Spring. Not in actuality. Just something to get our hopes up.

Richard said today it's a good thing we're not all like the weather man. I said, "Yes, he's not accountable for anything."

"Yeah. What if it was like that when I install granite? 'Hey, that's not the color I wanted!' Oh, yes, well that's what came in. Sorry."

I know this weather is no one's fault. It's just that we get to longing for Spring. Don't you think?

Take it from the widow (kind of a pun): Advice and a brief narrative

When that little voice tells you, "Get out of here, now," you'd better get out of there now.

I didn't, and I'm paying for it.

This morning, the new guy at the bank set up this neat little temporary account for me. Only he was too new to know what he was doing.

Now, after spending another hour at the bank and about that much time on the phone with SS--that's Social Security--at home and at the bank, I find I must go back to the bank Tuesday evening and we'll call SS again.

All to straighten out what he got me in to.

Dmitriy. I know, you think that's misspelled. But it's not. Dmitriy is a nice young man, with whom I do not want any other contact. The woman who helped me this evening assured me she will tell him his error. I told her to do it, because I was getting mad and didn't want to be rude to young, new Dmitriy.

It isn't a pigeon

I hear a mourning dove just now. I wonder if she knows I've been indexing death certificates. No. I don't really wonder that, but I have been indexing Texas death certificates today. And I don't wonder if it knows I'm a widow.

But about the bird.

A few days ago, a sparrow and a mourning dove met on the railing of my upstairs deck and startled one another. Both jumped and fluttered in air.

But it was momentary. Soon the sparrow went to the little bird house, and the dove stood awhile and let me hear that mournful call. After a while she began to walk slowly to the corner of the railing. Then she flew off into my neighbor's pine tree. (My neighbor has many pine trees.)

I do not remember seeing a mourning dove up there, so this visit seemed special to me.

I know. It's only a bird. I should get a life, you say. Well, I have one, and sometimes birds are part of it.

For another instance, I put the Christmas wreath in the garbage can this morning and wheeled it out to the street. Several years now that the house finches have not come to the wreath to build their nest. But I'll likely leave it up each year, just in case.

March 2, 1891; March 2, 1968

This is just a great day for me. Lola is why. Lola my mother and Lola my daughter. Both born today, 69 years apart.

Lola my mother was in my home near the time of Lola my daughter's birth. But we both gave up on an early delivery--I think Mama had been there nearly two weeks--and she had to go home. Lola my daughter, with, I think, a mind of her own from forever, came when she felt like it. But I believe she was giving more than a nod to her grandma by coming March 2.

No question what her name should be. My only question was, "Will she like the name? She'll likely be the only person she knows by that name."

Answer: She likes the name. For a long time she was the rare person, a Lola.

But not now. Now it's a very popular name. Too bad. It was ours first.

A Bit of Advice from the Widow

• Never buy black towels or black bathroom rugs. Trust me on this.

• If you drop a raw egg on your hardwood floor, clean it up right away. Actually, I did drop a raw egg on my hardwood floor. For the very first time. And I did clean it up right away and found it left my floor with a nice sheen.
  

• There are other ways to get a nice sheen on your hardwood floor.
  

• If you're thinking kind thoughts about someone, you'd better call and speak them.

• Remember this: Time does not stop.