The Blue Scarlett

I was still on Pacific time when I awoke in Grandma’s bed on the weekend I stayed with her on hospice.  Clanging noises were resonating from her original 1970′s, olive green kitchen and because I didn’t want to squander any of this precious time with her, I forced myself to roll out of bed.

Everything in her house seemed to have stopped evolving in the mid 1970′s.  The carpet, the yellow bathroom sink, the sparkly wall paper were all stranded in this era and so were her sheets, her clothes, shoes and decor.  I believe we crave those things around us that send us comfort and remind us of the best times in our lives.  Why else would be keep a hairstyle or a piece of clothing for 40 years and not embrace change or modern trends?  My grandma was a spendthrift and avid coupon clipper and didn’t believe in wasting anything.  She would reuse coffee cans, plastic bags, paper bags & boxes and it was all here in her house, much of it unused for many years.

Venturing into her bathroom, I was assaulted with every possible Avon product imaginable; soaps, perfume, make up and candles.  Grandma was a Super Avon lady for 20 years and won the coveted Albee Award for one of the top ten sales people in her sales division.  My sisters and I would receive Avon products as gifts for every Christmas, birthday or special occasion.  I remember at one time in my youth I had 13 different decorative Avon perfume bottles; a bunny, a snowman, a ballerina, a car and so many others.  These bottles were always filled with Sweet Honesty perfume and I wondered if she sent those to us to remind us to stay honest.

After a hot shower I walked into the the living room to find her in a robe on her hospital bed with a cup of coffee, smiling like a Cheshire cat.  She seemed to always be drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes until only a few years ago.  On our family visits, when I was younger I remember that this was one of my mother’s points of contention with her.  A smoker! Ack!  I thought it was dangerous and exotic because nobody else in my family smoked, so grandma was an intriguing rebel in my young eyes.

“Good morning sweetie, how did you sleep”?  she asked.  “Good, I think”, I replied.  Grabbing a cup of coffee myself, I snuggled up next to her on her hospital bed so she could resume telling me her tales from the night before.

“Oh, did you use the body cream in the bathroom? You really should use that right after your shower so it soaks into your dry skin better” she told me.  Our  Swedish heritage gave us both very pale and dry skin; especially in the Winter months.  “Yes, Grandma, I always use lotion after I shower, don’t worry.  I replied.  “Your pour little hands have always been dry and I’ve been slathering you up since you were a baby” Grandma said.

She continued to tell me that after one Christmas visit at her house in the mid 1970′s, I was probably 6 years old, Howard, her third husband had discovered little, lotion hand prints on the sliding glass door leading to the backyard.  He was about to clean the prints off when Grandma surprised herself and yelled, “Stop,  those are my granddaughter’s hand prints and I don’t know when I will see her again,  lets leave them there”.   And so my hand prints remained on her sliding glass door for about 5 months, until she finally let Howard wash them away.  She liked to glance at them every now and then as a reminder that even if her grandchildren were not there with her, parts of them would always remain with her in spirit and in her heart.

Grandma married Howard in 1970 and whom called the love of her life.   He was her third husband and an army veteran that had shrapnel in his leg from WWII.  “We were only together for a very short time before he died and left me”, she told me.  “Well, he had a hard time leaving me actually”.  She went on to tell me that the night after he died, she had gotten up in the middle of the night to come into the kitchen for water, when she saw him standing in the hallway ahead of her with a glow illuminating the walls around him.  She knew she wasn’t dreaming, but it scared her half to death. He spoke to her and said, “Merelyn, I want to make sure you are alright”.  “I am Howard, no go on…” she replied.  He then reached out his hand toward her and when she went to grab it, he dissipated before her.  He also appeared to her a second time.  After his death.  She had been working herself ragged and afraid her income would not support her, so she had been driving to clients houses, sometimes twice in a week trying to make extra Avon sales.   One evening after a long drive to see a new client, she felt herself falling asleep at the wheel.  She pulled into a parking lot and laid down on the seat to rest.  Two hours later, a gentle hand was stroking her face and whispering, “Merelyn, it’s time to wake up and go home now, its getting dark”.  It was Howard sitting on the car seat beside her.  That was the last time she saw him.

I only had this one weekend to spend with my dying, beloved Grandma; it was heart wrenching and I wanted to stay longer, but was so exhausted from talking non stop, all day and night that when it was time for me to leave, I was relieved in many ways.

The next morning as I was getting ready to leave for the airport, I wasn’t sure what to do except try and fight the tears that were forming in my eyes.  “Don’t cry sweetheart”, she cooed to me.  “I’m going to a better place and you have a lot of living yet to do, I’ll visit you if I can, but if I see a light, I’m going for it” she said.  That was her, always positive, always caring about the other person and this is why she was one of the people in my life that made me feel important and special.

I put on my coat, boots and was ready to cover my hand with my gloves, when I thought of leaving her with something from me as a reminder in her last days.  I walked over to her sliding glass doors and placed my adult hand print there, just as I had done so many years ago.  I then wrapped my arms around my frail Grandma and gave her a long, firm hug and kissed her thin cheek for the last time.  I pointed to my hand print on her glass door and she gasped with an “ohhhhh” and a single tear rolled down her cheek and a big smile spread across her delicate face.

People may come and go from our lives, but the ones that really matter will always leave an impression on your heart and spirit.  God speed Grandma, thank you for your love and care.

 

 

For Christmas this year, my family of three who is made up of my second husband and my 11 year old son and myself, decided to travel to my oldest sister’s home in southern Washington.  It’s only a one and a half hour drive and we were only staying one night, but because we can’t leave our dog alone and it’s nearly impossible to find a dog sitter for Christmas Eve and Christmas day, the dog and a ton of luggage, dog food, presents, fruit platter fixings and belongings traveled with us.  My son had half of the back seat and the dog filled the hatch back and the rest of it was piled from floor to ceiling with stuff.

Maya, our dog is a two year old Australian Sheppard, husky mix and weighs in at the exact same weight as my son; 70 pounds.  She has a ridiculously long and hairy tail that acts as a secret devise to remove ornaments from any Christmas tree sending sparkling balls crashing to the floor with one quick swipe of the tail.  This was my only anticipated fear about bringing her along for our stay; what else could really go wrong?

We arrived at exactly 5pm on Christmas Eve to the holiday lit festival which is my sister and her husband’s house and dog kennel business.  They also have pigs, one of which was to be served at brunch the next morning, egg laying hens, turkeys, a few ducks, a rabbit, 3 cats and 2 indoor miniature dogs.  Joey is a cute 16 year old terrier completely blind and nearly deaf and is solely motivated by the smell of food.  He will appear in the kitchen the second a cupboard or refrigerator is opened or a knife is pulled from the magnetic strip to slice any type of food.  Dino is a miniature pincher that resembles more of a tan sausage with a barking issue.  He barks at the front door, the cats on the porch, any person emerging from the bathroom (even if he saw you 10 minutes ago) and is basically a nervous wreck.

My brother in law is the cook in the family and had made a wonderful dinner of fish tacos and margaritas for Christmas Eve.  He and my niece had also made everyone a goodie box full of holiday sweet bread, chocolates, cookies, fudge and rum balls.  I do not eat many sweets and neither does my immediate family.

I have always shuttered when someone hands me a plate of homemade goodies in which they’ve gone out of their way to lovingly create every piece and then wrap in colored cellophane and bows only for me to throw it away when I arrive home.  We just simply do not eat them; my husband is a health nut and counts calories incessantly and I’ve just never liked many sweets, which has also trained my son to turn up his nose at all of these sugar laden blobs.  I like nuts, fruit or wine, just stop with the frickin’ sweets!  So not to hurt their feelings, I put the box in our zip up cooler and set it by the front door and forgot about it.

We had a simple and enjoyable evening, the kids played games and with the dogs, we watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” on TV, the men talked on the porch and my sister and I finished last minute gift wrapping and casseroles for brunch.  After the kids reluctantly went to bed my sister and I went into the basement to bring up the last of the hidden gifts and upon returning to the first floor we found that the three dogs left to their own devises had somehow opened our cooler, broke past the colored cellophane wrapping and dragged out the holiday bread and goodies and were ripping into them like a wild pack of wolves.  An hour later Joey had a Mexican blow out in his kennel, Dino was throwing up and Maya was trying to eat it!

Finally, after a doggie bath, lots of clean up and one last margarita, it was time for bed.  My husband and I had the spare room at the end of the hall and were eagerly looking forward to a good night’s rest.  After turning out the lamp, the first thing I noticed was that the colored lights outside our window would change colors and also shone directly onto our pillows causing an “I’m on Broadway” sort of feel.  We tried to turn the velor blinds up, but without curtains, it was only a minimal improvement.  The other thing we noticed was that the bed was extremely soft; so that if one of us turned over or went too far toward the middle, it would create such a slope that the spouse would roll to the middle as well.  We figured out that if we stayed respectfully on each of our edges, we could have our own space.

And then the music started.  I knew my brother in law had stayed up watching the end of a Holiday concert, but after that was over, he apparently had left the “Music Channel” on so that when the kids awoke on Christmas morning there would be ambiance.  Now, I know that they sleep with a fan and my BIN (brother in law) sleeps with an apnea device so there is no way they could hear the music, but I could.  Maya was in her metal kennel at the end of our bed and either being over stimulated from the evening’s events or just the knowledge that some little dog was in the next room, she could not be still. Every ten minutes she would adjust her position making a “clank” noise startling me out of near sleep.  And when she wasn’t moving, a car would speed by or a semi truck would press its compression brakes outside on the busy highway, 40 ft from our window.

At 4:00 in the morning, bleary eyed and lying there on the squishy edge of the bed, sweating in the flannel sheets with bright lights flickering on my forehead, listening to another bloody holiday tune, I considered going home.  Rousing the sleeping child and dog and throwing it all in my back seat, ½ eaten cookies and all and packing it in.  But, it was Christmas. My son was awaiting his gifts, my husband was looking forward to casserole and I wanted to spend some time with family.  My husband had put in ear plugs about half way through the night and was sleeping like a baby.  When I couldn’t stand it any longer I got up and took the dog outside to pee.  She immediately ran into the river on the back side of the property and it was raining.  I just stood there with swollen eyes, in my boots and pajama bottoms and closed my eyes to listen to the quiet of the morning.  I kept hearing a voice say, “suck it up, it could be worse”, how I wasn’t sure, but I’m sure it could be.

I dried the dog off, got dressed, put on make- up and drank about 6 cups of coffee and awaited bacon from the ornery backyard pig.  The kids were wrapping the mini dogs up in towels and carrying them around like babies and redundantly asking to open their stockings.  Life was going on as usual; Christmas came regardless of how much sleep I’d gotten, just as it should be.   Merry Christmas family, but next year, I’m staying home.

Tags: christmas, dogs, family, treats

 

I spent Memorial Day weekend of 2003 with my little, Swedish grandma in Minnesota on hospice.  I laughed, I cried, I hoped and prayed that it was all just a dream and that she would still be with us years later.  But, she did leave us in June of that year; it was her time to go, she was ready and she told me so.  Grandma shared many stories with me that weekend; some I already knew, others were a complete shock, but most of all, when I left her home for the last time, I knew that I was truly loved.

Besides her slightly rebellious, stubborn to the core attitude, unconventional ways and tenacious spirit, she was “The” walking example of unconditional love. She would’ve stood up to the biggest bully, the strongest government or anyone that had done me or her family wrong and I loved that about this 5’2″ dynamo.  “I may be small, but I’m not weak”, she used to say.

When I arrived at her home in the suburbs, everything was the same; the sweet smell of fresh cut grass and the neat little houses all in a row.  I entered through the garage and into the kitchen.  The same geometric, brown and orange carpet greeted me along with the smell of stale coffee in the pot.  This is also the same kitchen where she would store my tears in a Dixie cup on the window sill when she was trying to stop me from crying as a child.  It always worked. She would tell me she had to catch my tears, because grandchildren’s tears were magical.

What wasn’t the same was that there was an obnoxious hospital bed in the living room and oxygen tanks and tubes surrounded my frail grandma lying in the center.  “Oh my little Beth…. come give me a hug”, she requested.  Her familiar honeysuckle and baby powder scent immediately catapulted me back to childhood and I was safe and secure in her embrace once again.

She showed me the piles of stuff accumulated over decades that were being divided and sorted for her 5 children and 12 grandchildren.  A box of 70′s costume jewelry, a box of cards and photos, clothes for Good Will, furniture for Uncle Carl and bubble bath for each grandchild.  She then gave me the explanation of her illness, including the “happy button” on her morphine drip and the “emergency pill” for when the end came; then we sat down to attend to the business of storytelling.  Apparently, she was on a mission to tell me things and I was to do with the information as I saw fit.  I knew that this was our last time together and I wanted to remember, record and relish in her life stories the best I could.  Time is never as precious, until time is being taken away.

She began in bold Grandma style.  “I was pregnant with my first child before I was married” she said.    My uncle was a surprise!    It was in the early 1940′s in Northern Minnesota and my grandma was the youngest daughter of 4 girls.  (I too am the youngest of a family of girls.)  Her parents, my great-grandparents, were Swedish immigrants that owned a shoe repair shop.  When the war started, many farmers and other businesses were going under, but the shoe repair business was thriving as people were more apt to repair shoes than purchase new ones.

Grandma was in High School at this time and her two oldest siblings had married and moved out of the family home when she met Ben.  He was a few years older than her, had a car and a wild streak that was intriguing to a sweet and slightly bored teenager.  His skin was dark and smooth, being part Turkish and according to Grandma, was a real smooth talker too.  My paternal grandfather was also an abusive, two timing, gambler and draft dodger in WWII.   One of his girlfriends was named Beth… which explains the reason she protested my birth name, but it might have also been her lesson in forgiveness; to love a grandchild with a harlots name.  He ended up in jail for a bit and while the facts aren’t totally clear, either from too much “happy button” or lack of memory, they moved to Seattle after they married.  Coincidentally,  I too moved to Seattle when I was 19 without any of this knowledge.

Ben’s father lived in Seattle and it was here that the notorious “Beth” became a problem and Grandma discovered she was pregnant with her second child, my father.    They only lived in Washington State for a short time before they moved back to Minnesota and my Grandma had had enough of his abusive and wild behavior.  She lived with Ben’s mother and took a job as a “Cigarette Girl” at Charlie’s Club in Downtown Minneapolis.  A working, single mother with two small children in 1945 was not an easy roll to play.  She was smart, but had been dealt a bad hand and she blamed her heart and her yearning for adventure.  She was a good mother and loved her boys more than anything in this world.  “Your children are your gifts in this life; love them, protect them and always stand by them” she told me.

She stood up and told me to follow her to the back bedroom while dragging her oxygen tank behind her.  Opening her costume jewerly box, she pulled out a sparkling pin with “Charlie’s” spelled out in the center.  A hook was attached to the back.  “What is it” I asked?  “A purse hook for the ladies at who came to drink martini’s and dine at Charlie’s, the greatest restaurant and nite club in the city”.  “It was here that I met your second grandpa, Harold” she said.

With her eyes drooping we decided to call it a night.  I slept in her bed while she slept in the hospital bed and I fell asleep on my sweet grandma’s pillow, dreaming of women in fur wraps, martini’s and cigarettes in hand and laughter filling a grand ball room circa 1945.

Tags: Charlie's, grandparents, hospice, Minneapolis, Minnesota

I grew up across the street from a suspected haunted house.  At least this is what my sisters and I believed to be true.   Our Michigan farm house was most likely built in the 1920′s, but the dilapidated Victorian without an ounce of paint left on its wooden siding was built in the late 1800′s or early 1900′s.

It had a wrap around porch, stained glass windows and spiraled rooms that were just too intriguing for a few imaginary country girls with a penchant for ghost stories.  The Victorian property had been abandoned for as long as I could remember and was only being used to keep pigs in the barn.  My two sisters and I would spy on the old, farmer in beat up coveralls and watch his every move.  He seemed to only use the back kitchen area and we were dying with curiosity to see what treasures filled the rest of this grand home.

On more than one occasion, we would wait until the farmer’s rickety pick up truck would leave the property and then we would bolt from my sister’s bedroom window, over the yard, across the road and onto the back porch to enter through the unlocked kitchen door.  For such a big house, it had a tiny kitchen with a linoleum floor and a 1950′s Formica table, a coffee pot, one coffee cup and not much else.  Exiting the kitchen was like stepping into a time warp circa 1890.  Dust laden rooms had beautiful hardwood floors, Victorian furniture, sepia family photographs hung on  the walls and the window seats were complete with tasseled cushions.  Off of the living room was a bubble gum pink bedroom with an antique brass bed and a wooden dresser containing women’s stockings.  Old fashioned dresses hung in the closet and men’s black boots took up most of the closet floor.  An antique vanity table held an engraved hair brush and hand mirror that I imagined belonged to a beautiful farmer’s wife.

This Victorian museum may have been the ignition of my love of antiques, history, old houses and ghosts.  I wanted to know why everything was preserved as if a family made a hasty exit.  Was it haunted?  Were they captured by aliens?  Was there a plaque?  I felt like an archaeologist discovering an Egyptian tomb and it was amazing.

Against our better judgement, but on a mission to thoroughly inspect the premises, we ventured up the creaking, wooden staircase.  At the top we proceeded down a long hallway with exposed lath and plaster walls and at least 6 doors leading to bedrooms or closets.  At the end of the hallway was another  staircase, but smaller and ascending at a steep angle to a small rotund room.  A child’s rocking horse sat under a delicately stained glass window and tiny baby clothes hung in the closet.  Various toys, a bassinet, blankets and old children’s books lay about as if a nanny and a small child might return from the backyard.

Pushing the old window out revealed an owl’s view of  my sister’s window.  Was there someone watching us; calling us? Suddenly, we heard a door slam from the floor below.  We knew the old man had not returned because his pick up truck was not in the driveway.  Adrenaline coursed through our little veins and panic set in.   With one, quick, syncopated look, we dashed the obstacle course, down the small stair case, through the hallway and onto the first floor while holding our breath.

We were almost to the kitchen when HE appeared in the doorway; the old man was back!  My sister being the brave and daring one, shot out a broken, living room window, into the thistle bushes and across the road to safety.  The old man was on her trail, “Hey you, stop!” “What are you doing in my house?”  I, just realizing now where my fear of abandonment originated, froze behind a large winged chair until he went running after my sister.   I then dashed out the kitchen door, around the back of the house and into our other neighbors corn field where I wiped the sweat pouring down my face and waited until my panic dissipated.

To this day, I wish there was someone that could tell me the story behind that Victorian and explain why all those items were abandoned there.  I want to know if there was a tragic death and a negative energy that resided in that space and I want proof that there are other worlds that co-exsist with this one. This is why I love haunted houses, ghost stories, the supernatural and New Age phenomenon.  Hokey or not, I’m still waiting to feel this sort of rush like I did when I was young.  I want to see a ghost, even if I pee my pants, just to prove they exsist.

As adults we rarely get to scare ourselves half to death for fun, dodge capture, explore the forbidden and still make it home for dinner.  I suppose this is why we have memories, so that we can re-live and recapture those energizing fragments of life as we age to remind us to never stop searching for answers.

 

Tags: childhood, haunted houses, michigan

My ancient alarm clock started blaring the weather forecast at a ghastly 6:15am this morning.  Thank goodness I can pre-set my coffee maker the night before; its the only smell that can lure me from my warm covers.  Its been 2 years since I’ve had to regularly get up for a j-o-b, but even if I hadn’t secured a new position, my son’s middle school begins at 7:40am.  When I drive the carpool, we have to leave at 7:15am which means I have to be relatively presentable by this time because tween boys are so unforgiving and quick to point out if you are in your pajama bottoms.

I am still thinking through the details of how best to approach the day when I drive carpool and then leave for work at 8:30.  Do I get up extra early and be completely ready at 7:15 or do a half and half morning beauty routine? Clothes, breakfast and lunch creation before carpool; hair and make up after carpool? This is one of the big quandaries in a high maintenance type woman’s life; I’m thinking the latter is the better choice.  I don’t mean to be high maintenance, but I was blessed with fair skin that requires a coating of foundation to look normal and ultra, naturally curly hair that without the proper products and procedures, I could easily be mistaken for a homeless woman.

It’s interesting that my son and are experiencing these changes at the same time.  While I am trying to find balance with a new schedule, a new set of responsibilities at work while still maintaining a household, he is also seeking balance.  He has 6 new classes and teachers, a locker to fight multiple times a day, a new lunch code, a gym locker code, a band locker code, homework, deciphering which books and binders go with what class, activities, new friends and faces, how to handle being in the 8th grade hallway all alone and household chores.

Geez, when does a kid get to just play the Xbox like the good ol’ days and have time to goof off with the dog?  I can see why 6th graders are stressed.  I’ve been trying to first sympathize with his concerns and then gently remind him that this stress is only temporary and it will get easier as he develops a routine which he is fully capable.  There is so much truth to the philosophy that we teach most, what we need to learn ourselves.  Maybe this is why we are experiencing these big changes at the same time.

When I first received the news that I was indeed hired as an assistant manager, you would’ve expected me to be jumping for joy, but instead, I was numb.  Forced to face the reality that my life and schedule was going to change.  This wasn’t a bad thing, but for some people like myself, change is hard and scary, but my son consoled me with, “Mom, you’ll get used to it, just give it some time”.  Its nice to know we have each others back, now if I can just get my husband to vacuum, we will be all set for this new adventure.

 

Tags: kids, new job, parenting