Crossing the bar

My brother-in-law Dale died today. I hope he is better off. That's what people say. "He's better off." I don't usually like to hear it, but it might be true of Dale. He had suffered from Alzheimer's disease for several years and so was less and less the man we knew and loved. Hard on all who knew him. I don't know how hard on him, but I suspect it was not easy.

Last week he had a huge stroke which left him unable to speak or walk or swallow. Recovery was not possible. So, in this case, he is likely better off.

For the last few days he had mostly slept. He was at home. This afternoon the hospice nurse had bathed him, combed his hair, dressed him in clean garments, and he was sleeping peacefully. He died without waking. Died peacefully. His family was there, most of them, and I think that is the best way to die--quietly, all clean, family around to say good bye.

Still, I am sad. That's to be expected, too.

I know, because I was driving in it.

One day, when Wayne and I were teenagers, we went with his mom and dad and sister to visit some Schiess relatives. I'm not sure where it was, but it was quite a drive inland from Santa Monica. Maybe Downey or West Covina. No matter.

That evening we drive home, and it was foggy. A dense fog, thick fog. We lived in Santa Monica, a beach town. We were used to the morning fog, accustomed to hearing fog horns. But the morning fog would burn off every day. The fog we drove home in that long ago night was not about to burn off.

Goldie, Wayne's dad, was driving, always sure of himself, and always right--although I didn't know these things about him then. No doubt, though, he was challenged by this fog. We all watched the road, looking for lane lines or signs, anything to guide us. Whether or not that helped, I don't know. We couldn't see much of anything. It was that foggy.

Before too long, though, we could see tail lights in front of us. Hooray! A car, going the direction we were. That gave a sense of safety. We could follow those lights and hope he knew where he was going. We could hope. So that's what we did.

We followed that car for what seemed a long time. I don't know how long. When it turned and stopped, we were right behind it. That was puzzling. I think a man got out of the car. We discovered that we had followed him to his driveway. We didn't stay long in his driveway before Goldie backed away.

Was Goldie embarrassed? Not that I remember. I don't remember if we all laughed about it. And I have no idea how we made it home, but no doubt it was a long, slow, feel-our-way drive. Obviously, we did get home. Here I am more than 50 years later telling about it.

And why am I telling about it? Because this morning, here in Boise, on the freeway, in parking lots, on city streets, that's the kind of fog we had. A thick Southern California fog. No kidding.

Just a little thing

Today I passed a MacDonald's and saw this on the sign: The McRib is Back.

I called Andrew to tell him the news--joking, you know.  He said, "Mom, that's old news."

"Oh, sorry," I said.

He went on. "And I've already had one."

"You have? Do you like them?"

"Not particularly," he said, "but whenever they come around I have one, because Dad would have."

"Oh, Andrew. He would have."

"I haven't been able to bring myself to have another one. But I've had one."

About an hour later I was talking to Lola by phone, and I told her the story Andrew had told me. She listened patiently and then said, "And I've had one, for the same reason."

I didn't know about this custom--and I don't believe they went together--and it may sound like something nonessential, unimportant, but it's not. Not to me, and obviously not to Andrew and Lola. It's just something they do in remembrance of their dad.

There must be a word for how I feel about it. Like grateful. Grateful I have children who think that way.

How well would you handle it?

A week ago Friday I went to the temple. As I was leaving, a man from my stake was leaving at the same time. We nodded to one another. And then he said, "We sure do miss you in our stake."

Huh?, I thought, but I said, "I'm still in your stake. Boise East."

"Oh," he said, a bit embarrassed, although why he should be I don't know, because, as I said to him, "That's okay. I'm sure you don't know my name, and I don't know yours." I thought that would ease his obvious discomfort. But he went ahead and made himself more uncomfortable. At least what he said next should have.

"Well, didn't you used to be Sister Hessing?"

Now, I'll give you a minute to ponder that.

*     *     *

Many things came into my mind. Like,

What on earth kind of a question is that? I mean, really, what kind of a question is that, "Did I used to be . . . ?"

How old do I look?

Do you go to stake conference, Brother Whoever you are? Did you see me lead the music two months ago?

And did you used to be someone?
And I could have said many things, too. Like, "Yes, I used be twenty years older than I am now. It's a miracle." Or, "Yes, I used to be Sister Hessing, and then I died, and now I'm me." Or, "Yes, and before that I was . . . "  You could probably think of other things to say. I did.

But what I said was, "No, I never was Sister Hessing."   Pause.   "She's dead, you know."

There was nothing I could say to ease his discomfort now. Well, there was one thing, so I said it, and it worked. "Jim and June (Hessing) used to be my next door neighbors, though."

Then he asked my name. I told him, and he told me his name, which I'll leave out of this story for his protection. After all, his question was really stupid, and I'm sure he doesn't see himself as a stupid man.

By the way, in case you didn't know it, I hate being taken for someone twenty years older than me. And hate is not a strong enough word for how I feel.
Do I look like I'm in my nineties? Good heavens, I hope not.
Do I look anything like June Hessing? NO! And, besides, she's dead, has been dead about four years. He should keep up with these things.

No, I haven't forgotten

Today marks ten years, a decade, since Wayne died. Not that it is a happy remembrance.

If a person looks back, way back, she has to say she never expected to say or write such words. "It's a decade since my husband died." But so it is.

Must I say again? Yes, I'm sad, but I'm also happy. I suppose I must say it. So I have.

In this year, in the last few months, in fact, several people have considered me to be single. They have invited me to "singles" things--no crime in that; it's just that I never think of going to such things.

And in other contexts, people have actually said that word to me, like, "Since you are single," or something like, "How does a single person like you . . .  " and so forth. No crime in that either, I suppose, but it shocks me to hear such a thing.

Here's the deal. I'm alone. But I am not single. I am married, and if the Lord will accept us, will be married forever to the one man I ever loved. I hope he feels the same.

Small Pleasant Story

Richard just called to tell me this story about Axel. He's three.

Yesterday Sarah, Penelope, and Axel were playing with Play-Doh.
Axel said: Mom, I can't get this Play-Doh out. May you help me? (He says "may" always instead of "can.")
Sarah: Sure, Axel.
And she did.
Axel: Thanks, Mom. You're a really good Christian.

A Couple of Things

First day, first month, new year,  2013. We're still here.

I got my favorite calendar for Christmas, the one Paul and Tasha make for me each year. This one has pictures from our Schiess family reunion of last July. Always I love what they do, usually pictures of their family. But last year's calendar anticipated the reunion, this year's shows it. You would love it, too.

Now I'm going out to buy my second favorite calendar--Marilyn Monroe. Don't give me flack about that. I  liked her. Doesn't matter what I knew about her. I liked her. And I've had a MM calendar every year for about eight years.

No. I will not buy any clocks.

I have removed the Solitaire icon from my computer. Guess why.

And, btw, I have thrown out most of the goodies and sweets left here from Christmas, including Christmas cookies and a pecan pie--after I had a slice to see if it was any good. It was, but I am resolved to cut back and cut down on that kind of stuff. You know, the annual eat-less-junk-lose-weight resolution. But I'm serious about it.

Question: Should I be hypnotized away from chocolate? Scary thought.

Next question, to show that I know not everything in this world is about me: Should Michelle Obama be hypnotized away from sleevelessness? I mean, have you ever seen her wear anything with sleeves? I remember what my mother said in her disdain for sleeveless dresses, blouses, etc. "That is not an attractive part of the arm."

Next question, back to me: How long will it take my new furnace, AC, washer, dryer--for all of which I am paying $10,574 and some cents--how long, I ask, will it take before they pay for themselves? Will I live that long? Oh well, it had to be done.

Last question, again about me: Will I get married in 2013? Just kidding. No interest in that. But there is that one old guy who keeps looking at me and, when possible, approaches and speaks to me. Well, there are two old guys. Just being friendly? Maybe. But it gives me something close to the creeps.