When Did The Cemetery Stop Being Creepy?

 

Like most kids, I found the cemetery to be about the creepiest place around. I knew my stillborn sister and my grandparents were buried there, but the only grandparent I ever knew died before I turned 3, so I didn't really remember her. Even afer my Uncle Dale died when I was in 9th grade, the thought of stepping foot into a cemetery where all those dead people were was not high on my list of priorities. When I went to college in Winona, I remember a bunch of us piling into a car one night and driving through a cemetery just to try to scare ourselves. That cemetery probably would have been scary in broad daylight as the road wound around tight corners and was out in the middle of nowhere.

Over the years I lost my fear of cemeteries, but still didn't feel a need to visit them. My mom and dad would always put flowers on the graves of their relatives on Memorial Day Weekend. I never really thought about it much. When they were unable to do that on their own, my sister Jo would help them. It never crossed my mind to go along.

And then my dad died. Once he was laid to rest in Evergreen Cemetery, the creepiness was gone for me. Suddenly, every time we went down to visit my mom, I would drive thru the cemetery and stop at my dad's grave. My mom liked to ride along. It was so nice that his grave was right next to the road running through the cemetery. That way, even though it was hard for my mom to get around, we could just stop the car, she could roll down the window and "visit" with him. That first Christmas after my dad died, my mom and Jo found a cute little Christmas tree to put on his grave. I found some solar lights that we strung on the tree too. The last few years of his life, my dad loved sitting and looking at the Christmas tree in their house. We just knew that he would have loved the little tree on his grave. So that Thanksgiving weekend, Mother, Jo and I took the tree to the cemetery. While my mom sat in the car watching, Jo and I almost froze our fingers off trying to wire that little tree onto a plant stand in such a way that the winter winds wouldn't blow it half way to Hokah. Thru trial and error and more laughs than we'd had in months, we got the tree secured. The two of us have put that little tree up 3 years in a row now. Each year we freeze and share laughs as we use yards and yards of wire to secure that tree. It's almost like spending time with Daddy (and now Mother too). 

On Memorial Weekend the year after my dad died, I helped Jo and my mom put flowers on a bunch of relatives graves. This was one of the first times I really walked around much in the cemetery. I found it sweet that the graves of my dad's parents were just diagonal across the cemetery road from my dad. And Dale was close by too. My mom's parents were not buried next to each other. My Grandpa Miller didn't belong to a church, so he was buried in the city portion of the cemetery rather than in the church portion, where my Grandma Miller was buried a few years later. I still find that to be sad. I also saw where my dad's grandparents, William and Minnie Zibrowski were buried. They died several years before I was born. Minnie died first and William died only a couple days later. Everyone said it was of a broken heart. All of us siblings knew that if my mom would have gone first, my dad wouldn't have lasted any longer than William. In fact my dad had often said, that if my mom died first...and I quote...."they may as well dig my grave at the same time!"

Memorial Weekend of 2011, Jo and I put flowers on the graves again. This time Mother was in the nursing home. I took pictures of all the graves with the flowers and showed them to her. Little did we know that in less than a month she would be laid to rest there too. Later last summer when we were in Caledonia, Eric and I drove thru the cemetery. We stopped at their graves and I hopped out of the van and started pulling weeds from their plot. I could almost hear my mom saying, "You don't have to do that." Maybe she was just trying to get me out of there before I pulled that dandelion that was starting to sprout!

Now I actually find cemeteries to be comforting. I think of how many stories there must be with each person buried there. I think of families still mourning and mourn for those buried who have long been forgotten. When I go thru Evergreen Cemetery, I see names of people my parents talked about over the years. I find those taken far too soon: my mom's aunt, Rosina, who died in childhood and Shane, the teenage grandson of my dad's cousin who died in an atv accident on Memorial Day weekend in 2010. The last time I visited, I saw the grave of Bob Jacobson, a man who died only 2 months before my mom. Bob was so good to my parents and helped them in and out of church many times in their last years. And I even saw the grave of someone my parents mentioned whose name always made me laugh. I don't remember a thing they ever said about him other than his name, which cracked me up each time I heard it. I won't mention the name, just in case there is a relative of his reading this. You'll just have to walk the cemetery yourself and see if any names make you chuckle!

As I was writing this entry, my 10 year old daugher, Lauren (who has no idea that I'm writing a blog) walked in and asked me if I remembered the bird they buried months ago. Even though I didn't really remember, I said I did. She's a talker like my mom and she would have told me everything that happened the week before and after they buried the bird to try to get me to remember. So, I said yes that I remembered. She then went on to tell me that she put flowers on it's grave. I told her that was sweet and she said, "Well, actually they were dandelions!" She then asked if I'd looked at my front garden lately as it's blooming with tulips and daffodils. I told her yes and that she could pick some. She quickly ran outside and told me not to look when she came in. When we sat down for supper tonight, I found this sweet little bouquet just for me.

Holding Hands

 

We had a very full house growing up. There were 8 of us kids, Mother and Daddy and our Uncle Dale all living under the same roof. I actually slept in a bed right next to my mom and dad's bed until I was about 8 years old. (I suppose it could have been worse: rumor has it that my sister Jo slept in a crib until she was 6 years old!) My bed was next to my mom's side of my parents' bed. On nights when I'd have a hard time falling asleep, she would reach out and hold my hand. Having my hand in her's magically comforted me and I was able to drift off to sleep.

I spent the last several days of my mom's life with her in the hospital/hospice. Several of us kids would spend the nights with her as well. We would take turns with who slept where. When it was my turn to sleep on the cot next to my mom's bed, there were several times when she reached out to hold my hand. It took me right back to those childhood nights when her hand would reach out to comfort me. Only now I couldn't help but wonder if she was reaching out to comfort me or to have my hand comfort her. I suppose it was a bit of both. But this time she was the one who was able to drift off to sleep.

After my mom died and I was remembering her reaching out for my hand, I recalled something that happened  when I was little and slept in that bed next to my parents' bed. I wrote the following in remembrance of that.

                                                                 Mama’s Gone

I’m four years old. I awake and in the early morning light and begin to search for you. You aren’t in the living room cleaning. You’re not in the laundry room sorting clothes. You aren’t in the kitchen starting breakfast. With each empty room, my heart races a little faster, my worry grows a little more. I decide you must be upstairs with the dust mop, cleaning the hall floor. I climb the stairs only to find you aren’t there either. I’m terrified. Through my sobs, I cry out, “Mama’s gone! Mama’s gone!” Bedroom doors burst open. Startled and sleepy eyed brothers and sisters rush out to see what's wrong. Suddenly, I hear the most beautiful sound in the world: your gentle voice. “I’m here. I didn’t go anywhere. I’ve been here the whole time.” I look and there you are at the bottom of the stairs. I rush down the steps into your waiting arms. You tell me that you were asleep in your bed, right next to my own, like always. When I awoke, I forgot to check the most obvious spot of all before wandering the house in search of you.

Now, all these years later, I feel like I’m that four year old child again. My heart is crying out, “Mama’s gone! Mama’s gone!” as I desperately search for a glimpse of you:  A long forgotten picture, an old card with your signature, a blanket with your scent…a piece of you that I can hold onto. Suddenly I hear the most beautiful sound in the world again. “I’m here. I didn’t go anywhere. I’ve been here the whole time.” As I rush into the memory of your loving arms, I am reminded once again that I need only look in the most obvious spot of all to find you…my own heart.

The Woman Who Loved to Visit

 

Anyone who knew my mom, knew she liked to visit. When I was little, she and the neighbor ladies would have monthly "coffee parties" at each others houses. The ladies would visit, while the kids played. I remember being so shy that I would usually sit on Mother's lap until about 30 minutes before it was time to leave. Then I'd be disappointed that I didn't have enough time to play. My dad also served on the "Town Board" for Caledonia township for several years. During the summer months, those meetings rotated between different members homes. It was always fun when the coffee parties or town board meetings were at our house, because my mom would have even more yummy treats around the house than usual. I especially remember the town board meetings. The men would sit at the kitchen table talking business and enjoying a beer or two. The women would gather in the living room and enjoy a bottle of Spring Grove Pop. When the business was done, they all had "lunch" which was usually sandwiches and dessert. My mom liked both the coffee parties and the town board meetings as it gave her a chance to socialize with other women.

Mother seemed to know everyone in and around Caledonia. Sure, it was a small town where it seemed everyone knew everyone else, but my mom never forgot a name or a face or how people were related to each other. As an adult, when I'd go back to the farm, she'd always have a story to tell. It usually would start with, "You know ________." Not having lived in the area for many years, I usually didn't know the person she was talking about. When I said that, she would go on to tell me how they were related to someone else that I also didn't know. I learned that this would go on until I finally knew someone's sister's husband's grandpa's niece. So, I admit that I got to the point when she started the conversation with, "You know________", I would just say yes, so that we could just get to the story!

When Mother went to the nursing home, her knowledge of how everyone was related and her love to visit served her well. Since the nursing home was in Caledonia, most of the workers there were also from Caledonia. She would ask the young workers who their parents were, and usually had a story to share about their grandparents or some other relative. The workers all seemed to love my mom. Sadly, in the nursing home, many of the patients aren't able to communicate very well. My mom loved to talk and got to know all about the workers. There were actually two workers there who were each getting married. Mother had my sister Jo go to the farm and bring some brand new dish towels that she had stashed away so that she could give them to these ladies as gifts. It was so like her to want to give a little something to someone "just starting out".

At first, Mother had a room to herself at the nursing home. After a few days, she gained a roommate, Millie. In her younger years, Millie had been the secretary to the bank president in Caledonia. I think that intimidated my mom a little. In Caledonia, Millie's position was about the highest ranking position any woman had back in those days. As it turned out, Millie and Mother loved each other's company. They both were talkers. Both were widows. And both were determined to go home again. Both had a strong faith. Millie was very sweet and worried about my mom when she was in such awful pain. One night when I stayed overnight with my mom, I could hear Millie praying when she went to bed. I also overheard her talking to her husband and telling him how much she missed him. I guess it shows that no matter how different we may think we are:  what jobs we hold, what clothes we wear...we all have more similarities than differences.

Interestingly, the nursing home is in the old Caledonia Hospital. The room my mom had, looked out at where her childhood house once stood. Now it is a pasture with a couple horses in it. My mom loved to watch the horses out of her window. I imagine that as she looked out that window she was remembering many of her childhood days.

When my mom was admitted to the hospital in LaCrosse, she quickly struck up conversations with two of the nurses, Cheryl and Colleen. They were her favorite nurses. When I met each of them, I knew why. They were so caring and liked to visit too. I think Mother confided in them a lot. Even on days that they were working, but weren't in charge of my mom, they would stop in to see how she was doing. Both stopped in to say good-bye to my mom when the end was near. They offered hugs to us and told us that Mother had told them how much she loved us.

The pastor who handled my mom's funeral even commented on how much my mom loved to visit. I was there when he visited her in hospice. At that point, my mom wasn't able to talk a lot. Pastor Wolff  teased Mother a little bit that he finally was able to get more than a few words in when talking to her. He told us how when he made home visits to her, he always scheduled at hour with her. With others he only scheduled 1/2 hour, but with how much Mother loved to talk, he needed an hour with her. He said that when he moved to Caledonia to be a pastor there, talking with my mom helped him learn how church members were related to each other. He mentioned these things during her funeral and many people commented about how it was obvious that he really knew her well. The last time Pastor Wolff visited my mom in hospice, he was going to be leaving town for the weekend. He knew that she likely would not be there when he got back. I will always remember him patting her hand and saying, "Good-bye old friend." Days later when we were planning her funeral, I told Pastor Wolff how touched I was by that statement. His response was simply, "That's how I thought of her."

I think at times we all wonder how people will remember us when we are gone. I can't think of a better way to be remembered than as an old friend.

Dandelions

 

Like most kids I picked my share of dandelions for my mom. And like most moms, she told me how beautiful they were and put them in water. But my mom never stopped telling the story of one bouquet of dandelions that I gave her. It was on a Mother's Day when I was probably 4 or 5. All of us siblings always gave my mom a corsage to wear for Mother's Day every year. More often than not, the corsage was pink carnations. Pink was her favorite color and she always said she like carnations because they lasted so much longer than other flowers. On that particular Mother's Day, I apparently didn't want to just give her a corsage with the others. I wanted to give her something just from me. So I went out and picked her a nice bouquet of dandelions. She told me how it meant so much to her that I wanted to give her something all on my own. I swear that I heard this story over and over every Mother's Day. It was rather embarrassing to hear when I was a teenager, but when I became a mom, I understood why it meant so much to her.

When my mom died, we picked out a casket for her that was identical to the one we had picked for my dad. I remember when we first picked the casket for my dad, the funeral director, Jeff (who I will no doubt blog about one day) showed us that this particular casket had a secret little drawer where you could put little momentos to send with your loved one. He commented that when that casket first came in, he chuckled at the thought that maybe you really could "take it with you"! It was one of many times Jeff provided a bit of  humor when we needed it most.

Most of us kids and many of the grandkids wrote letters or put something special in the drawer for each of my parents. For my mom, I put the tribute that I wrote for her, The Woman Who Never Did A Lot. But I  had a nagging feeling that I should put something else in there too. I couldn't decide what. And then it hit me. So on the drive to the church on the day of her funeral, I stopped and picked a perfect yellow dandelion for her and put it in the secret drawer.  I just know she has told everyone in Heaven about how
even with all the beautiful flowers (including pink carnations) that were at her funeral, her baby, Kim, gave her a dandelion that was just from her.

On Easter weekend, I picked some flowers from the farm and took them to put on Mother and Daddy's grave. I made sure to add a dandelion. When I got to the cemetery, I had to smile when I found a dandelion growing on her grave!

Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Ole Oak Tree

 

In 1973, Tony Orlando and Dawn had a hit song by that title. We Betz kids decided it would be a cool thing to in fact tie a yellow ribbon around our old oak tree. Here is a picture of our handiwork. Needless to say, none of us grew up to be artists or professional bow makers!

But that oak tree was something special. The story goes that when the electric company was putting up the power lines (must have been in the early 40's), they wanted to cut the oak tree down to have a nice short, direct path for the line to go from the road to the  farm. My uncle, Dale, refused to let them cut down the tree so instead they installed the power lines diagonally across the front yard.

Here is the earliest picture I've seen of the oak tree. Ok, so it's not really of the oak tree, but it's in the picture. The four kids on the corners are my four oldest siblings. The two in the middle are cousins. From the size of my sister, Jo, who apparently didn't want her picture taken, I'm guessing this picture was taken in 1956 or 1957. The trunk of the oak tree doesn't look very big yet. The tree must have been quite small when my uncle saved it from being cut down.

The oak tree was as much a part of the farm as Mother and Daddy were. No matter how much things changed over the years: who moved out, got married, had kids, bought a car, bought a house, etc, Mother, Daddy and the oak tree were always there to welcome us home.

As a kid I didn't think too much about the tree. I just enjoyed the shade it provided, especially between loads of hay that needed unloading on swealtering summer days. The tree also served as home base for ball games and a place to hang the deer that the men got each fall. My sister, Linda remembers my dad parking the car under the tree on a hot July day back in 1957 when my mom returned home from the hospital after our sister Cindy was stillborn. We passed by the tree every day as we got the mail and as we got on and off the school bus. The oak was there in November of 1970 when my dad was taken by ambulance after suffering a stroke. It was there when he returned home again weeks later. It was even still standing the night in April of 2009 when my dad left the farm for the last time...feet first. (I will blog about that another day.)

As I matured (although some may question if I ever really matured), the oak tree and my parents became more beautiful to me. I always loved my parents and I suppose the oak tree too, but there comes a time when you see "beyond the bark".  The tree had to have weathered countless blizzards and thunderstorms over the years. My parents weathered life's storms as well. Each storm shaped the tree and my parents into something I cherished.

I believe it was in the summer of 2006 that the oak tree was struck by lightning. If you look closely at this picture, you can see the "scar" that was left on the tree from the path the lightning followed to the ground. The tree survived, but was slowly dying. All of us kids saw the parallel between the tree's decline and Daddy's decline in health. Daddy was born in 1917, so was by no means a young man. But he'd survived so much: a stroke, the removal of several feet of small intestine, even a tractor tipping on top of him. (In fact we figured that he must be part cat since he seemed to have 9 lives!) The tree probably shouldn't have survived the lightning strike, but much like my dad, it seemed determined to go on. Each year it had fewer leaves and seemed  but a shell of it's former self. In much the same fashion, each year my dad became more frail and his ability to communicate diminished. On April 16, 2009, my dad was called home to Heaven. The oak tree remained.

In early March 2011, my mom decided the oak tree was to the point that it needed to be taken down. It was only a matter of time before a storm would take it down. My sisters talked to some loggers who said they would take the tree down once things warmed up and the ground dried up. I asked my mom to let me know the day it would be taken down so I could be there to witness it and take pictures. On March 31, the loggers showed up and decided to take it down that day. I found out from my sister via e-mail. I was so sad and upset. The worst part was that noone who was there had a camera to document it. Luckily, my mom was able to watch from her chair in the living room as they took the oak tree down. In hindsight, I am glad the men came and took the tree down when they did. If they had waited until May when we all expected them to, my mom would no longer have been there to see it.

 After the tree was taken down, my nephew, Chris, took several pieces of the wood. He is very talented with carving and carved a picture of an oak tree into a slab of the wood for my mom. She loved it and was very touched by it. She had it hung in her living room where she could see it from her lift chair where she spent most of her time in her last weeks at home. The crack in the wood was apparently caused because the wood hadn't dried much before the carving. If Chris had waited for it to dry, my mom would never have gotten to see it. I also like the idea of the crack representing the lightning strike.

When we visit the farm now, Mother and Daddy are no longer there to welcome us. Neither is the oak tree. However, I know some day when I am called home to Heaven, Mother and Daddy will be there to welcome me Home for good. I also half expect to hear the angels singing:

"If I don't see a yellow ribbon 'round the ole oak tree,

I'll stay on the bus,

Forget about us,

Put the blame on me,

If I don't see a yellow ribbon 'round the ole oak tree."

I bet my sister Cindy will also have hung a beautiful yellow ribbon and bow (unlike our pathetic looking one)around the biggest oak tree there. She has to be the one who got all the artistic talent!

****After posting this, I heard from my brother, Charlie who had heard a different version of how the oak tree was spared from the power company. It sounds like the real story is that in the late 1960's when other electrical work was being done on the farm, the electric company suggested cutting down the oak and running the power lines straight into the yard rather than at the diagonal way it was originally done. And Charlie also heard that it was my dad, rather than uncle who refused to let that happen. Either way, I'm glad the oak was saved or we never would have had the chance to put that pathetic ribbon and bow on the tree in the 1970's!

Maxine

Maxine Kathryn Miller was born on February 29, 1924 to Earl O. and Freida Miller in Caledonia, MN. She was a Leap Day baby! Her dad owned the bakery in Caledonia and it is there that he met Freida. There are hundreds of pictures that her parents took of her, but I've only seen one of her with both her parents.

At the age of 18 months, Maxine contracted polio. While many were crippled by the disease, Maxine was one of the fortunate. She always said that her mom wrapped her legs in warm compresses, much like Sister Kenny's treatment years later. Maxine did have to learn to walk again, but didn't have any lasting side effects from the polio. I always wondered though if the arthritis she developed in her back decades later was a result of the polio. 

My mom was an only child. When she was about 4 years old, her mom had an ectopic pregnancy and almost died. Their house was just down the hill from the hospital. From their house, they could see when the operating room lights were on. Being only 4, my mom didn't know that her mom was in surgery. She told me that she saw the operating room lights and commented, "They're cutting a lady's arm off up there!" Fortunately her mom survived.

When Maxine was only 11, her dad died. He had Dropsy (which I believe is now called Edema) and he had suffered a stroke several months before his death. She had a very hard time dealing with that. The dr. told her mom that she needed to take my mom away for a while or she would have a nervous breakdown. I believe they went to her Uncle Bill's farm in Wisconsin for a while.

Less than 7 years later, when my mom was not quite 18, her mom died of breast cancer. Her mom told her dr she knew she had breast cancer and could feel it "crawling" under her skin. The dr dismissed her concern (this was in the early 1940's) and by the time it was confirmed that she had cancer, the treatment was too late. So at the tender age of 17, Maxine was without either parent. And she was an only child. I remind myself of this time and time again when I am missing my parents. I was 45 before I was "orphaned" and I have siblings who understand and feel the loss. My mom had to grow up and take care of herself early on.

After her mom's death, she lived with her Uncle Mike, whom she dearly loved. I believe when Uncle Mike went into the service,  she lived with her Aunt (always called Auntie...pronounced Anty) who was not an easy woman to get along with.

At some point before my grandma died, my parents met. They both went to Young People's Society at St. John's Church, but my mom told me she remembered my dad's brother from there, but not my dad. Where my mom remembered actually meeting my dad was when she and some friends went out into the country to watch some men harvesting hay. My mom and her friends rode in the wagon, on top of the hay, from the field back to the farm. While her friends climbed down once back to the farm, my mom was afraid too. So apparently a nice young man named Earl Betz, took her hand and helped her down. The other men were ribbing Earl that he was sweet on Maxine. I guess they were right! Earl and Maxine dated for a while and then Maxine broke it off. Apparently she had a crush on someone else. I asked my mom once a few years ago why she broke up with him and she told me "Because I was a dumb shit!" My Grandma Miller really liked Earl and was very upset with Maxine when she broke up with him. Grandma told Maxine that she would never find a better man and that Earl cared deeply for her and she had hurt him. I believe she told my mom that she'd never forgive her for hurting him. Sadly, my grandma died before my mom realized that my grandma was right and went and made up with Earl. I firmly believe that the first thing my Grandma told my mom when they saw each other in Heaven was, "I told you so!"

My parents were married on February 24, 1946 and celebrated 63 years together before my dad died on April 16, 2009. Together they had 8 living children. They also had a stillborn daughter born on July 13, 1957. My mom had stopped feeling the baby move and when the baby was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. I recall my mom saying that she never saw the baby, but one of my sisters swears my mom told her she did see her briefly. But my dad and the funeral director buried the baby the same night. My sisters Linda and Jo had decided when my mom was pregnant that the baby was going to be a girl and would be named Cindy. Back in those days, when a baby was stillborn, it wasn't common to name them. Her grave marker simply said infant daughter. When my dad passed away and my mom ordered his gravestone, she decided to put the baby's name on the stone as well as my dad's and her own. So 52 years after her birth, the baby was officially named Cindy. When my mom was dying, we told her that when she got to Heaven, to be sure and tell Cindy that she has siblings who love her and will be excited to meet her one day. I figure that after all the years they were apart, it's appropriate for Cindy to have our parents to herself for a while.

Enough of my rambling for now...more is sure to follow.

Remembering My Mom

One year ago today, my mom was admitted to the nursing home. She had been experiencing excruciating lower back pain for a couple of months and her dr. wanted her to be monitored as they tried some strong pain medications to relieve the pain. My mom insisted that she would only be there for 2 weeks and then would go home again. Little did we know that day that she would not ever go back to the house she'd lived in for over 60 years.

Now, one year later, I find myself remembering and reflecting. I've decided to blog mostly as therapy for myself as I relive the last couple of months of her life. I'm not sure what directions my writings will go, but feel free to follow along.

As for the name of the blog, shortly after my mom passed away, I wrote a tribute to her entitled The Woman Who Never Did A Lot. I'm sure I'll blog more about it in the days to come.