I wrote these two blogs in 2020. A year of loss, confusion, anger, fear, courage, forgiveness, clarity, and newly-forged paths. I began writing mystery novels as a way to process the personal questions and global mysteries that never seemed to stop assaulting us.
Writing “The End” was my way of stopping and solving them in 80K words.
There are so many things I don’t want to forget…
I know four ladies in the same family, each a generation apart from the next, something like dominoes or nesting dolls, each individual contributing to the larger fun of the game. They are each a hoot.
But would not necessarily be pleased that I told you so.
Particularly Vi, the oldest of the bunch. If you take Viola out to breakfast, she will pay. She will ask the waitress to make her coffee extra hot and send it back if it’s not. She takes her coffee the way she takes her life in general: bold enough to make you sit up straight and pay attention. None of this sugar and milk nonsense.
These four generations of ladies share a common denominator or two, and the most entertaining one is their general stubbornness, or as I prefer to call it, “the determination to go forth and conquer”.
I have a separate relationship with each of them and whether I tell a story on the one-year-old or the 84 year old, the other generations smile and nod and insist “isn’t that just like her mama!”
Yes. Yes, it is.
In 2014, Vi’s daughter asked me to write something up and speak at Vi’s funeral services. Not that Vi was feeling poorly, mind you. But she wanted to be prepared. In 2015, Vi asked me if I would write up a little something for her funeral. Not that anything was amiss. But you never know.
I laughed and offered a compromise. “Vi,” I said, “Instead of waiting till later, how about I write about you now? That way, you can make sure it’s accurate.”
This pleased her, of course.
Not that my writing is objectionable.
Vi was in hospital frequently over the last few years because her blood pressure refused to cooperate and it sent her into fainting spells. I asked her to make me a blog about her experience there. She was delighted at the prospect and was as helpful as possible. She would tell me all of the horrible things the doctors did to her each day and finish with, “You know you can’t write that, right? Don’t you dare put that in your blog.”
“But Vi!” I insisted, “I can make you famous! I can make you a rock star!”
She laughed, but she wasn’t buying it. She retained full veto power and wielded it from her perch on the pillows until there wasn’t a hospital story left.
I’m still not sure what, exactly, a smart lady like Vi saw in a silly thing like me, but I suppose if she was willing to have me in her hospital room while total strangers worked her over with instruments of torture, she considered me “in”. With a wink and a nod one day, she informed me that calling for an ambulance brought dashing young men right into her house to tend her with first class service. “So much nicer than driving yourself,” she insisted, “that’s the way to go.”
I might try fainting myself sometime, to see how that works.
Vi’s family was everything. We passed the time talking about them. She took great delight in the fact that I was a nanny for her great-granddaughter and listened forever to my stories about “that little toot,” as she called her.
I finally wrote Vi’s blog, “Elderflowers and Rosebuds”, to celebrate the connection between generations and the love and hope that is passed down from grandparents to toddlers. It was a subject we were both passionate about.
Vi passed away last week at 93 years young. The eldest of these four precious women went on her own terms, in her own bed at home, and will be missed dearly. There has been a lot of loss lately, in case you haven’t been watching out your window.
And no one is having funerals.
We all need somewhere to put our grief. This is my little piece of comfort.
And if you never met Viola, please introduce yourself to her great-granddaughter.
You will see Vi in her sparkling eyes.
Elderflowers and Rosebuds
From we elders to you, my children—the parents now. (Oh. The grandparents? When did that happen?) There’s something you need to understand about the little ones staring shyly at me from behind your knees….
Please get us together and party. We simply can’t get enough of their company.
We watch in fascination as our genetics and smiles pass down the generations, cleverly packaged in sweet smelling skin, sparkling eyes, and fresh views.
It’s like pushing the “do over” button, but we no longer feel the need to do it ourselves. Life has been crazy and we’re tired, but these little ones are so ready to go after it.
You are encouraging them to reach for the stars. We love that. We hope to be stars, ourselves, at some point.
Reach for us, little ones.
The littles are so innocent. We know it can’t last. But maybe, just maybe, you can let them have a childhood for just a bit longer? Once childhood is behind them, there’s no going back to this place of wonder and fearlessness and trust. We know. We tried.
Thank you for putting our mistakes behind us. You and I may have quite different views on a great many things that I used to think were very important. Now, not so much. The older I get, the fewer things are worth being dogmatic about. It will happen to you soon enough. And you will discover that the simple, beautiful, and playful parts of life are profoundly fulfilling.
And I want to share those moments with the littles.
I know there are doubts and worries in your head. I know, because I went through them in my turn. You visit me in the hospitals and convalescent homes and my own home and worry non-stop over germs and food and medicines and random oxygen lines that could find their way into your little’s mouth. You wonder what that smell is and whether the cleaning lady is up on my laundry and if you will make it home in time for the little’s nap.
You hold them, wriggling in your arms like the fish they are, and bribe them to stay five more minutes so I can drink them in with my eyes and soak up their babbling with my ears. And when you bring them close for a kiss or a cuddle or even a handshake, my world lights up like Christmas.
Will I still be here for Christmas?
Will this little one take in that wonder as much as I take in this one?
I do not need entertaining.
It is powerful and satisfying when this little one sits in my company and simply exists.
Many people love me, and they show it with flowers and treats and visits full of cheer.
But you.
You bring life into the room when you bring the littles to see me.
You bring my reminder that today is lovely and tomorrow is hopeful, regardless of the details.
Thank you.
Go with God, my friends.