A Simple Cup of Coffee

I've been reminded of that old saying about one door closing and another opening. Actually, that seems to be my motto lately, but I'll write more on that another day. Sometimes that door is a job - like my daughter's last day of work today; sometimes, it's just having a last cup of coffee.

For about the last ten years (yup, that long), I have been having coffee on Friday mornings at 7:00 a.m. with my sister, Patty, and our brother, Brad. Others have joined us at various times, but it has been the three of us for many, many years. I'm not really sure how it all started, but I'm sure Brad would tell us if he could. He always remembered the details. It was sporadic at first, but then we grew to enjoy and value that time together. Meeting after work wasn't a possibility - too busy and messy with schedules. But, we could all agree that getting up earlier one day a week wasn't too much of a commitment. If we were unable to attend, we would oftentimes reschedule for a Thursday. Our coffee time was important and became a routine that was necessary for reasons I am only now beginning to understand.

We shared our coffee time idea with friends and family. Others would often comment on what a wonderful idea it was, and that is was something they would like to do with those they loved. The baristas knew us by name much like in the Cheers song. When we would show up on off days, they noticed and would remark on our change. Other customers, who often frequented at the same time, would nod in recognition in our direction. We'd exchange conversation about the weather, and often it felt as if we were our own little family . . . a coffee family.

We weren't always afforded the same seats, but we had our preferred ones.  We shifted after each remodel, ultimately finding our favorite.  Patty and Brad would sit on one side - I would be across from them, with my always large purse sitting in the fourth chair.  I can see them.  I can see Brad leaving (he always left first).  He would push the door, look back, smile, and nod, as Patty and I would delight in reminding him of how much he was loved.  I remember his face on December 11th - a pause and smile and nod, and the last time I would see him. "I love you" were my last words to him.  Brad died on December 12, 2016.

But, this blog isn't about the loss of my brother . . . or is it? All I know is that having coffee with Patty and Brad built relationships beyond that of siblings. We knew each other as people, as adults, as parents; we shared, teased, laughed, cried, and loved. Patty and I continued the tradition after Brad passed, always missing him, always looking at his spot. Sometimes we sensed his presence, heard his laughter, and knew that things were forever changed. There hasn't been a week since his passing that we don't cry during our coffee time.

However, today that coffee door closed. I'm moving in a week and can no longer have coffee on Fridays with Patty. We knew the significance of today long before we sat down to talk. It was like saying goodbye to Brad again. We cried before we spoke. Not the pretty cry, but we cried tears that released hurt, fear, and such sadness. Brad was there - he was smiling. He never understood, but loved, the way the women in our family are quick to our teary emotions. We were able to express how very much this simple act, the simple cup of coffee shared, changed who we are.

Just as we had decided that it was time to leave, I had a light-bulb moment (maybe it was Brad providing levity) - "Hey. I'm available for coffee next Thursday. I don't leave until Friday. This isn't our last coffee, next week is." We belly laughed through tears - always my favorite emotion. It was OK to leave, to close this door. Walking out, we talked about "coffee in cars" - our new tradition.  We will talk to each other on Friday mornings on our way to work. So, Friday coffee will look different; another door is opening, and a simple cup of coffee can make all the difference.

Downsizing

A couple of years ago, I wrote about a fire at Mom's apartment and all the stuff that was unrecoverable.  Well, we are at another critical juncture in her life, and once again, we are mourning all the stuff that has been lost.  We have downsized another time, and not because of choice or a decision to do so, but out of necessity.

Mom has been diagnosed with moderate dementia and can no longer care for herself in a way that is safe and healthy for her.  This path started years ago, but the family kept thinking - no, hoping - that it was stress and age, and not the nasty Alzheimer's that had taken Grandma Hazel years ago.  That disease is supposed to skip a generation which would give me reasons to worry, but not Mom.  Of course, we closed our eyes to Auntie June (Mom's sister) who is also suffering from the torment of dementia and is years ahead of Mom in that mind degeneration process.  However, over the past few months, things had progressed to a point where we could no longer hope; we could no longer pretend that all was well; we could no longer ignore the calls from friends and relatives who shared our concerns.  We took action and started the mind boggling journey of determining what would be the best for Mom. It was time to move again, and this time to a locked memory care unit.

No one prepares you for that decision.  Finding the right doctor for diagnosis was the first hurdle, then there was the two weeks of observation, coming to terms with the diagnosis, cleaning out the apartment, finding bills and documents, contacting and working with social services, and so much more.  It takes a village to raise a child, but it takes a village on the other end of this life's existence also.  There are no rule books and no checklists to follow.  Then there is that moment when you see a five foot two little Italian lady sitting on a bed in her new "home".  This is the same woman who survived five kids, a husband who suffered PTSD and was an alcoholic, and more trauma than most people could have handled.  Now she seems fragile, confused, and scared . . . oh, and begging to get out of "this place".  You find yourself working to keep yourself upbeat and trying to convince her that all will be alright.  It will be, I know.  But, it is a shock to one's sense of what is normal in this life.

So, today I sat on the floor in an empty one bedroom apartment - no stuff to be found anywhere.  All that was there was my own stuff:  my sorrow, my fears, my love for my mother.  That small space had been the last of her freedom.  Now there would be no more cars, church choir, gas station chicken sandwiches, sporting events of every kind, making doughnuts, and no more coming and going at her pace, which was fast and sassy.  Mom's new room is small, and our attempt at making it larger by calling it an apartment doesn't make it so.  She has a bit of her stuff around her, stuff that survived kids, several moves, a fire, and another downsizing. As her family, it will be up to us to provide for her a semblance of freedom, outings if you will.  But, her independent spirit will depend on us to keep and hold that energy for as long as we can, because ultimately there will be another downsizing, and I'm not quite ready to think about that just yet.

It's Just Stuff

"At least no one was hurt," we've all said so many times.  In fact, that's what everyone says when a crisis reveals that not a single person has suffered any physical harm.  I've said it.  You've said it.  But, it wasn't until my mother's apartment building burned that I took those words to heart and tried to find comfort in the simple fact that no one was hurt...at least that no one could see.

Eight months ago, life changed for our family when out of a blue, sunny afternoon my mother's apartment building experienced a devastating fire.  The fire started above her apartment because a cigarette receptacle malfunctioned (a coffee can was too full or tipped over).  The effects of that simple accident was that 22,000 gallons of water was deposited through the pieces of remaining roof and into the gaping mouth of the apartments below.  The scene was like others I had seen before whether in a movie, the nightly news, or even in passing.  However, never before had my family been the family that others looked at while shaking their heads, eyes down, and internally thanking whomever that it wasn't their burden to suffer.

We huddled, tried to shake out the disbelief in our minds, and placed our palms over our mouths.  Our focus was on the fire and the occasional distraction beyond the size of the flames: the kindness of strangers and the Red Cross, police tape, the ever growing crowd, and the courage of the firemen.  Calls were made to those we felt should know immediately.  My sisters, brother, brother-in-law, my mother and myself were on the other side of police cars and officers who were keeping the personally unaffected people back.  We were allowed to cross, to inch closer - a distance that was safe, yet one that separated us from normal neighborhood bystanders.  Other impacted families now became familiar to us even though we had never met.  We would nod heads and walk towards each other to make idle chitchat.  No one had answers to the questions as to how, why, and what should be done now.  We waited.  Together.  Equal in the knowledge that the future held so much uncertainty; some cried, others nervously laughed, and some just left.

My 71 year old mother was unable to absorb the enormity of her living situation.  She was certain that she would be able to get back into her home to retrieve everything...and I mean everything.  For a moment, I thought I saw a glimmer of acknowledgement of all that was lost, but that shine dulled quickly as she became more interested in talking to the strangers and neighbors who were surrounding her.  Her conversation about making the locally famous doughnuts at the Senior Center made her somewhat of a celebrity.  She would wander, and we would follow knowing only that we needed to be close - just in case.  That moment came.  Sitting on the curb, staring at her home, fire still eating away at the apartments below, my mother put her head in her hands and cried.  It wasn't for long.  It wasn't the out loud bawling type of cry.  It was more of a silent anguish.  "What about my pictures?  Your dad's flag?  Oh, and that mirror your dad and I bought when we were first married?"  We could only comfort through hugs.  There were no answers to her questions.

The things.  The artifacts of 71 years of life...those items that people say are only "stuff".  Remember, at least no one was hurt.  But, what about the things?  My mother's childhood teddy bear, my father's Korean War memorabilia, Mom's favorite sweatshirt, cookbooks with recipes from people I don't even know, special china, a favorite frying pan, towels, Christmas ornaments, bedding, even underwear - gone.  My mother's treasured privacy enabled her to have and know things that we didn't.  What was lost that we, her children and grandchildren, would never know about or be given the opportunity with which to grieve?  Mom couldn't remember.  She already exhibits the loss of memory that comes with being a female in her family.  I wanted to scream, to cry, and to berate myself and my siblings for not going through her "stuff" before...before we wouldn't have the chance.  I always thought there would be time...well, I have learned that you can never count on time.

It has been many months since the almost forgotten fire.  Mom is in a new apartment with an entire household donated by kind strangers, friends, and family.  She was even able to retrieve a few things that were wet and a little smokey, but not completely ruined.  For several weeks afterwards, Mom would wander over and try to dig through melted remnants in the garage.  But, even that has passed.  She mourns mostly for the loss of a garage - her new apartment didn't come with one.  She is back to her routines and has created a new living space where there is familiarity.  However, I wonder if she wonders.  Does she reach for that certain plate that was her mother's, only to find it isn't in the cupboard?  Does she look for that particular picture of Dad in his Army uniform but just can't seem to find it?  She doesn't talk about her loss, but she must feel it almost on a daily basis.  I know that I wonder.  What are the secrets that I'll never have revealed to me?  What emotionally valued item will no longer come with a great story about my mom's childhood?  But, in the end...no one was hurt.  No one was injured, and all that was lost was just "stuff".  It's all just stuff.

New Crayons & Sharpened Pencils

     Tis the season to be jolly...yup, you guessed it - school supply season.  How sweet the smell of new crayons and markers.  Folders and notebooks coordinate and are selected with care and consideration.  The new pens and scissors hold equal value with new clothes and shoes.  When I was young, this time of year held so much potential and was a time to start anew.  Of course, I'm much older and supplies have changed, however their meaning has not.  As a young girl, I would hold a box of crayons as if they were my most valued possession.  Don't even get me started when I was finally able to buy the box with the sharpener in the back - that was truly a momentous occasion.

     Then I had children of my own, and I was able to relive the experience all over again, and again, and again.  I never tired of new school supplies.  If they wanted a Dallas Cowboys binder, Harry Potter notebook, or fancy mechanical pencils, I bought it.  I offered fun locker decorations, the newest marker colors, and neon sticky note pads.  My overzealous behavior often led to "are you crazy" looks from the kids, but I had to try.  I have to admit, that I always threw in a few extra things - just in case I needed them.

     As a teacher, I am able to extend my love of new school supplies throughout the entire year.   I don't just buy a stack of notebooks; I buy a case.  I purchase each item as they go on sale, knowing that they will not be this inexpensive in January.  My desk looks like a commercial for either Target or Office Max.  Seriously, I know teachers (myself included) who should buy stock in these companies.  We (notice how I included others again) touch and smell, arrange and rearrange, label and merely just look at our new pretties. 

     All this joy and all this newness, brings me to the real reason teachers buy enormous amounts of supplies.  Yes, we love them, but we know that kids do too.  And there are far too many students who don't have the access, the money, the ability to get the supplies that will make the start of their school year special.  Classroom funding is down, so in turn, supply lists for parents have grown.  Technology is pricey, and I know the difficulty of buying a $100 calculator.  What if you have more than one child and are on a tight budget?  

      The fall brings a feeling of crisp newness - clothes, haircuts, and yes, school supplies.  But, for some, it is a time of stress and struggle.  If you have the resources and can help a child, a family, or even a group of students - do so.  Most schools would accept donations of new or unused supplies.  Many stores have donation bins to help.  Check with local churches and organizations to see what can be done.  With the generosity of family and friends, my sister and I have been able to help a few students with supplies, shoes, clothes, and anything else that might be needed at this time of year. However, there is so much more to do. 

     Remember, the joy of seeing a student with a new backpack, unloading their new school supplies, is a heartwarming sight.  Even better is the look on their face when they use those new supplies and don't have to worry about having to borrow or do without.  School is about learning and friendships, but sometimes, just sometimes, it is about new crayons and sharpened pencils.

Gratitude

Vacation days start as slow days that move at a pace where it seems an eternity remains before I have to return to reality.  All too quickly, time accelerates, and the precipice that seemed so far away is now the edge upon which I stand.  While living my days on the splendid beaches of Mexico, I remind myself that I need to take time to be grateful before I mope my way back to my seat on the return flight home.  I never use to take the time for gratitude, but for the past four years, it has become a treasured tradition – one that is equally as valuable as Mexico itself.

I pack for vacation in the same way most people do; I bring the typical items:  swimsuits (you can’t be photographed in the same one all week), too many clothes (that never get worn), books, cosmetics, sunscreen, and much more.  All of this is smashed into an already bulging suitcase.  I have repeated this process for my Mexican vacations for the past 13 years.  Usually, I wind up removing several pounds of magazines, books, and journals in order to avoid additional airline charges.  This results in stretched arms lugging my now too heavy carry-on bag around the airport questioning my decision to bring so much, but knowing that all of it might, just might, be needed.

My sister also packs as I do – too much and with the intention that next year she’ll bring less.  Cindi is the older sister I always wanted but didn’t know I had.  The story of our meeting is one that I love to share, but in its entirety is best left for another time.  Cindi calls daily, sometimes several times.  Her gifts are always perfect, and she laughs at the same things only I have ever found funny.  On the night we met, three and a half years ago, I knew that I had met my soul sister and our fates were entwined – forever and always.  And in that forever, Mexico would become a shared sanctuary.

“Cindi?” I asked, looking up from my tummy position on one of Grand Casino’s not so grand beds.

“Yes?”

“Want to go to Mexico in June?”

“Sure!”

That was that!  No questions were asked about hows or whys or details.  We had known each other all of two hours, and we were already planning a vacation together.

Packing for that first, eagerly anticipated trip wasn’t unusual, with the exception of one tiny item…one item that didn’t affect the weight of my silver suitcase.  I chose to bring a shell – FROM Minnesota to Mexico.  A shell.

It wasn’t just any shell.  It was and is the shell with which my sister and I use to burn white sage.

I learned that the local Ojibwe tribe believes that the smoke from white sage carries prayers upwards to those who can hear such things.  We had used this same shell to say a shared prayer at the gravesite of our father.  I wasn’t sure why I had brought the shell to Mexico, but it was a quick and decisive decision.  Sealed in a Ziploc baggie, in the inside padded pocket of my suitcase, was a palm-sized white shell with a bundle of new, dried sage ready – just in case.

Our vacation days were spent sunning our Minnesota white bodies, eating guacamole and chips, and pretending to read while sitting mesmerized by the greatest lady of all…the sea.  We would greet her daily and try to collect the treasures of sea glass and shells that were being offered.  This routine was broke only to sample new exotic foods or to watch the salsa dance lessons by the pool.

On our last night, we lingered on our wooden loungers for longer than in previous days.  Other family members had gone inside to pack, to eat, to finalize and wrap up their time in Mexico.

“Let’s just stay out here,” I said.

“I agree.  I don’t want to go…ever,” Cindi said as the salty breeze blew across her closed eyes. 

Neither of us moved – such stillness and calm broken only by the in and out of shallow breathing.  Time released the moon and let her rise just to the right of us.  She was placed just above an outcrop of rocks where the sea splashed her white foam over the jagged horizon line.  Our feet were covered with a thin layer of fine sand, and the towels upon which we sat were still slightly damp.

“I’m so happy Dad finally brought us together,” I said.  Turning my head to look at my sister, I reached out to grab her tanned hand.

“Me too,” she said, squeezing my hand in return.

Expelling air in a struggled sigh, I sat up and forward with my legs splayed on either side of my chair.  Reaching for my blue woven beach bag, I felt for the baggie that I had placed in there earlier that day.

“I brought this just in case we want to pray or meditate or…” I hesitated not knowing what else to include.

In one swift movement, Cindi sat up and was facing me.  She gracefully and gently placed the bag in her hands.

“Is this?”

“It is,” was all I could say.

“Let’s go closer to the sea,” she said.

Without waiting for a response, we rose, collected our belongings and started the short distance to the first row of chairs closest to the ever-growing high-tide waves.  Placing the empty baggie in my beach bag, Cindi set our shell on a small brown table.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The first two clicks of the lighter resulted in no flame, as the steady breeze made it difficult to stay lit.

We cupped our hands, creating a shelter, and the third time gave us the results we were seeking.

White sage smolders.  White sage smokes.  There is little flame, just sparks that red glow.

Following the thin smoke trail upward and toward the moon, we both smiled at the star that was now visible and meant for just this moment.

“Dad.  Thank you for the gift of each other.  We know you wanted this meeting to happen sooner, but that wasn’t our path.  We are happy and want to thank you for your guidance, protection, and love.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Cindi managed through her now stinging eyes.

Both our eyes glowed brighter than the moonbeam reflections off the sea.  Each of us remained quiet in our own meditations for several minutes while we alternately cared for the sweet-smelling smoke curling around our gratitude and carrying it upwards towards our star.

Taking one last look at the turquoise waves through tall palm trees, I now realize that the melancholy I have always felt upon leaving has been laced with a thankfulness that I will carry throughout the next year.  We will return and our gratitude ceremony is destined to become an annual ritual.  I am thankful for the sea, the sand, Dad, my sister, and all that is Mexico and all that is family.  Soon, we will share with our children what is means to send gratitude upwards in a puff of smoke.  

Oh, Canada! Ay!

I have fallen in love again at the ripe old age of...well, 50+.  Not with a tall, dark, and handsome man - although, that might be a fun thing, but instead, with a country.  I have fallen in love with Canada - at least with a small piece of her, Thunder Bay, Ontario.  It's only six hours from home, and I'm already thinking about when I can return.

My sister, Cindi, and I embarked on our little excursion on June 19th.  We knew we would only be able to stay a couple of nights in Canada, so our mission was focused - amethyst mining.  Yup!  You read that right.  Two years ago our plan was to mine amethysts in Thunder Bay, but a family emergency put the trip on hold.  It took a while, but we finally were able to cross this off our bucket lists.  I'm not sure how we found out about the mines, but we both love rocks, especially amethyst.  Purple is the color of wisdom in many Native American tribes, so we took that to heart meaning we should explore more purple in our lives.  We now have pounds of the smart purple stones.

Our trip up through Duluth, Two Harbors, and many other little towns was relaxing and put us at ease with our traveling pace.  We stopped to eat when we wanted.  Agate and pretty rock picking became side adventures on beautiful Lake Superior.  The weather was cooperative, and the scenery, breathtaking.  We weren't deterred by our lack of agates (although we found a great rock shop, just in case we wanted to purchase instead of going home empty handed).  We weren't on a schedule (it took only 12 hours to drive six - not bad). And we vowed to eat only in local restaurants - no chains (we did purchase donuts from Canada's coffee/donut shop on every corner - Robin's Donuts - it made me think of How I Met Your Mother).

The topography in this part of Minnesota and Canada is so beautiful.  Framed on one side by the blue expanse of Lake Superior, Hwy. 61 takes you right from Duluth into Thunder Bay.  Plush greenery, rugged hills, granite, and waterfalls abound along the trip.  We stopped at the usual places:  Split Rock Lighthouse, Gooseberry Falls, and a treasure called Prudence River (rapids, swimmers jumping from rocks into cool waters below - very beautiful).  Don't forget the wildlife:  birds, fish, tourists, and my favorite - the deer and moose crossing signs.  In Canada, the moose signs say "Night Danger" with a prancing moose above the words.  I'm wondering why hitting a 600 pound or heavier creature with your car in the daylight wouldn't be considered a danger.  But we kept our eyes peeled.  You also have to love Canadian highway signs with the crowns.  As queen bees, Cindi and I found these crowns quite welcoming.

You don't need to know about the kind people, who really do say "ay" by the way, or the great beer and food, even for us vegetarians (not every menu was about meat).  But, when it comes to the amethyst mine, I'm telling you to go.  I would bring kids - the mine tailings just lay above ground.  The hardest parts were bending over to pick up the pieces I wanted, carrying heavy rocks in a bucket, and putting back the stones I couldn't afford to buy.  It cost $8 to enter, and you pay $3 a pound for your treasure.  The massive museum pieces that line dirt walkways were stunning.  You can see where the mining takes place, and even buy jewelry if you are interested in polished stones.  All of this is surrounded by beautiful forest and even, a lake.  I would do it again - so would Cindi.

Leaving Canada was difficult.  We had fallen in love with a Gouda cheese farm just outside of town, and they don't ship to the states.  We didn't want to leave the perfect summer weather, eating out, staying in our bubble of a hotel, and of course, we didn't want to leave that magical lake.  When we crossed back into Minnesota (remember you need a passport now), we both turned on our phones to check messages and see what had happened with our regular lives.  It made me sad to see us both back on our phones - checking what?  I remember traveling before cell phones - "Hey, we are going on a trip, and we'll see you when we get back."  That was it!  You explored with your family, you ate with your family, and everyone talked.  Heads were up, eyes scanned the roadsides, and the radio was the biggest distraction, yet entertainment.  So, I guess this trip was about more than amethyst   My sister and I talked.  We laughed.  We explored.  It was about us and the purple wisdom that we found.  Oh, Canada! Ay!


Great places to visit:
Betty's Pies
Vanilla Bean Restaurant
Honey Bee Bakery (wild rice/cranberry bread)
Gooseberry Falls
Temperance River
Thunder Oak Cheese Farm
Amethyst Mine Panorama

A Teacher's Summer

This is what my typical teacher's summer sounds like:

June

Gosh, I hope I packed everything in my desk, bookcases, files, etc.  I don't want the janitors to dump my desk like that one year when everything broke and was scattered all over the room.  Of course, I hope I remember which box contains all my September stuff.  It's probably the box on the bottom.  Oh, please let my candy dish be empty...mice love that sort of thing.  I remember a year when mice dined on my beautiful Indian corn.  At least they were fat and happy mice.

Ah, it's finally summer.  Oh wait, it's Minnesota.  So it might feel like April.  I can't wait for fresh vegetables and flowers.  It could be a while.

I wonder why I signed up to take a four day workshop out of town.  I know I need credit hours to maintain my license, but just when I got use to staying up until 10:30?  I've only been out of school for two weeks, and I'm back to sitting on uncomfortable chairs for eight hours listening to a speaker and sometimes learning.  Do I sound like this to my students?  How can I better engage my students?  

July

Ahhh...finally the Fourth of July.  Wait!  Why would I be excited?  Really, my summer is half over already, and I've still done no spring cleaning.  I know people think summer is three months, but to be honest - for me it's about six weeks - maybe!  I can't believe the school supplies are already in at Target.  If I don't buy them now they will be double the price in January.  Inhale deeply...I love new markers, crayons, pens, paper, folder, stickies, calendars, oh heck - I should buy stock in this stuff.  I've already dropped off two loads of new supplies in my classroom.  (I can't believe I don't get a paycheck until September.  I better watch the checking account a bit closer.) The floors look so shiny, and my desk didn't tip. Yay!   I think I'll rearrange my room - I'll design the new arrangement tonight at home.  Oh, I forgot to send in my supply order...while I'm visiting my room I had better take care of just this one thing.

I wonder what time I have to be in school next week to go over data from last year's kids.  Who will my new cherubs be?  I'll miss my kids from last year, but I look forward to meeting the new ones.  I hope that the kids I taught are safe, fed, and reading.  Where is my summer going?

August

I can't believe I'm dreaming about school.  I'm starting to get that tingle in my tummy - I'm spending half days in my classroom.  I don't know how some people can come in for one day and be ready to go.  I need weeks to prep, re clean, rearrange, locate my September box, and just sit and do my desk stare.  More workshops and I realize I only have days left before there are actually students in chairs.  They will be here on Tuesday whether I'm ready or not.  I just love that first day smell - new clothes, clean school, excitement...

What?  Summer is gone.  I had only six days with no thought of kids, data, teaching, desks, books, classes, and worries.  I lie...I think it was only four days.  

Yesterday, I had to nod when the lady at the grocery store told me how lucky I was to have summers off.  I just told her...I am lucky to be a teacher.