When Did Funeral Directors Stop Being Creepy?

The easy answer to this might be when people stopped calling them morticians or undertakers. Both of those words make me conjure up images of a creepy old guy with evil intent. The term funeral director makes me think of a professional doing a necessary job that few others would want to do. When I was a kid going to St. John's Lutheran School, our classes would often sing at funerals at the church. I can still picture the undertaker walking down the aisle, very somberly and closing the casket one last time.  I know my parents said he was nice, but still, the whole idea that he was an undertaker creeped me out.

Thankfully, I had no reason to have contact with any funeral directors until Daddy died. To understand my first meeting with Jeff Fredrickson, Funeral Director, you need a little background information.

I think the biggest fear my dad had was that he would end up in a nursing home. I know nursing homes are sometimes necessary. When my mom was there, all the workers were wonderful and took great care of her. Still, for as long back as I can remember, my dad feared ending up there. He was adamant that he would die at the farm. He said many times that the only way he was leaving the farm was "feet first".

On the evening of Feb 23, 2009, I got a call that my dad was being taken by ambulance to the hospital in LaCrosse. He was having trouble breathing. He'd been diagnosed with congestive heart failure months earlier. We all knew that this could be the end. As it turned out, he was sent back home again the same night. Knowing my dad, when he go to the hospital, the emergency room doctors probably asked him how he was and he no doubt answered, "Oh not so bad!" I had seen this happen months earlier with my own eyes. That night in February, before I knew he'd been sent home, I told Eric that I wondered if they put him into the ambulance "feet first". I predicted that if they had not, he'd go back home again. I later asked my sister-in-law Leah who rode with him in the ambulance that night, and he'd left the farm head first.

On April 16, 2009 I received a call that things were not good and that we needed to get to the farm as soon as possible. We arrived at the farm 10 minutes after Daddy had passed away. I knew as soon as we pulled into the driveway and saw my siblings gathered on the back steps that we were too late. The strange thing was, I had peace in not being there when he died. Some how, I felt it was the way it was meant to be. We had seen him only 4 days earlier and I know he wouldn't have wanted my kids to see him struggling at the end. To me, the important thing was that we'd fulfilled his request to die at home. I did however, feel there was one more final request of his to fulfil. I told my mom what I had in mind and she liked the idea.

I had never met Jeff Fredrickson before, so I had no idea what to expect. The first thing that I noticed was that he was not a creepy looking old guy. Rather, he was a nice looking young guy. (I'm guessing he's about my age, so that makes him young, right?) He immediately told my mom how sorry he was for the loss of my dad. He was professional and yet personable. Mother told him that I had a request of him. I wasn't quite sure how he'd react to my request, but it was for my dad, so I went for it. I asked Jeff if he could make sure that my dad left the farm "feet first". I told him that it didn't matter to me if he put my dad into his vehicle feet first or backed out of the driveway, just so long as I could honor my dad's final wish. To my amazement, Jeff didn't look at me like I was crazy. He told me that he'd never had that request before, but he could certainly accommodate us. I remember Evan (only 7 at the time) was feeling really bad about Grandpa's death. Jeff got down to Evan's level and told him that he would take good care of Grandpa and get him ready for the funeral.

When it came time to take my dad from the house, Jeff again assured me that my dad would leave feet first. I told him that while I believed him, I was going to watch to make sure. My dad's body was loaded in the vehicle, head first, which meant Jeff would have to back out of the driveway. It was dark outside by now and we were out in the country. Jeff wasn't familiar with the road, so Eric drove our van down to the end of the driveway so the headlights would give Jeff enough light to see where he was going. We all watched as Jeff backed my dad out of the driveway, fulfilling my dad's desire to leave the farm "feet first".  As we watched, Jeff turned too soon and backed right into the ditch. To our surprise, he didn't stop but kept driving backward up and out of the ditch. We all chuckled thinking my dad got more than he bargained for. Jeff continued backing up the road until he found a spot to turn around...a good 1/4 mile or more up the road.

The next morning, when we met Jeff to make funeral arrangements, he asked me if I'd backed into town that morning. We all needed that little bit of humor. We knew my dad was laughing right along with us. Jeff did such a wonderful job with the funeral. He was so kind to Mother, making sure that everything was just how she wanted it.  My mom was so pleased with everything. She told me that Jeff even called her a week or so later to see how she was doing. How sweet was that? At the funeral, Jeff told me that some day he planned to right a book of memoirs and the story of my dad leaving the farm feet first was going to be included. I told him I expected a free, autographed copy.

Fast forward 2 years. My mom was in the nursing home with horrible back pain. She was given morphine, which was the only drug that ever took the edge off her pain while she was there. The problem with the morphine was that as she said, it made her feel "dopey" and it made her have bad nightmares. She told me that she had a dream that Jeff came "to get her" and that she could feel him carrying her out of the nursing home. She then felt herself in her grave and could feel dirt being thrown on top of her. It broke my heart to hear of this nightmare.

Weeks later, on the morning of what would end up being my mom's final day, her and I were talking. I told her that I loved her and that all of her kids and grandkids loved her too. She responded that she loved all of us too. Then out of nowhere, she said, "Tell Jeff I love him too." I had no idea who she was talking about, so I asked, "Jeff who?" Her reply was, "I can't remember." My niece, Kelly was dating a man named Jeff, who Mother had only met a few times.  I asked, "Kelly's Jeff?" to which she responded, "No." At that point it hit me that she might mean Jeff the funeral director. So I asked, "Jeff Fredrickson?" and she said, "Yes." I told her that I would tell Jeff for her. She passed away about 7 hours later.

The next morning when we met Jeff to make funeral arrangements, I told him that I had something to share with him. I hadn't seen him in 2 years, but he asked, "Was I supposed to drive your mom feet first?" I chuckled and told him the whole story, complete with the awful nightmares my mom had and her asking me to tell him that she loved him. He had a tears in his eyes and told me that he wished he had been there to tell my mom that he loved her too. He said that doing his job in a small town was hard because he gets to know people and when some of them die, it hits him very hard. He said my mom was one of them. That brought tears to my eyes. I told him my mom said that she liked him the first time she met him. It was at another church member's funeral and my mom needed help getting my dad into the church. Jeff was right there to help her. I know my mom would have been pleased with her funeral. She looked great and the service was beautiful.

I know she would have laughed when he told us that one of her rings was going to be hard for him to remove before closing the casket the final time. He told us that his secret was to use Windex as it breaks down tissue and makes it easier to remove, but that he didn't think it was appropriate to carry a bottle of Windex down the aisle. He also joked about spraying the Windex around his own waistline to break down excess tissue. I know some might find this to be in bad taste, but our family has a sense of humor and needed a few laughs. I also know my mom would have raved over how clean Jeff got her glasses. She never could keep them clean, and now they were sparkling. Oh, and for the record, Jeff got the ring off without the use of Windex.

We had a copy of the book, Heaven is for Real at the visitation. Jeff started reading the book that evening. He also told us about a show on the Biography Channel called: I Survived, Beyond and Back. It is about people who have been declared clinically dead and come back to life and the experiences they had while they were dead. I have watched the show a few times since then, and it's very interesting.

I believe that when my mom told me to tell Jeff that she loved him, that she was telling me she knew she was going to die and that she was ok with it. She trusted Jeff after how caring he was when Daddy died and she knew he'd be just as caring now that it was her turn to go.

I know that if Mother was here reading this, she would want me to tell "Kelly's Jeff" that even though he wasn't the Jeff she was talking about that day, she loves him too. Kelly and Jeff got engaged at Christmas and plan to marry in 2012. Kelly's Jeff wore a pink tie to my mom's funeral. I just know Mother smiled at that. And the more I learn about him, the more he reminds me of my dad. How could my mom not love him?

I truly have no idea what makes a person decide to become a funeral director, but I completely believe that Jeff Fredrickson has found his calling. I think the most important requirement for being a funeral director is being a people person. And, no, not just a dead people person. Yes, you have to prepare the body for the funeral and burial. But what really matters is how you treat the family of the deceased. It is the saddest time of their lives. A little caring and compassionate goes a long way. Jeff provides both of these and throws in just the right amount of humor too. Even my kids still talk about how nice he is. I have never met Jeff's wife or kids, but I send a big thank you out to them as well. Jeff can't choose his hours of work and I'm sure it cuts into precious family time for them.

At my mom's funeral, I asked Jeff if the story of my mom saying she loved him would make it into that book of memoirs some day. He said it would. Since I've taken the liberty to write about our experience with Jeff, I feel it's only right that I pay for the book he publishes down the road. But I still expect it to be autographed!

Stormy Weather

My mom hated thunderstorms. My dad could sleep right through the worst of them. I have vivid memories from childhood of stormy summer days and nights at the farm. I took after my mom and was terrified if there was even a chance of bad weather. If I heard that there was a thunderstorm or tornado watch, I would be nervous the whole day.  I remember hiding in a corner by the refigerator whenever the sky looked threatening. I'm not sure why I picked that spot, but it was probably because I wanted to be close to my mom in the kitchen, but I also wanted to be in a spot where I could not see out any windows. We never went into the basement at the farm in stormy weather. There were a couple of reasons for that. First, that basement was almost more scary than any weather that could possibly come our way. Second, my dad always said that because the house was built of cement blocks, if a tornado hit, rather than blowing away, the house would collapse into the basement. No wonder I was afraid of storms!

When my Uncle Dale and my Grandma Betz lived with us, apparently Dale would go outside if it started to storm. He liked to stand on the back steps or even lay down on the lawn to watch the sky. My Grandma would holler at him to get in the house. I'm betting she even called him by his full name: Dale Arthur John Betz!

Every summer when I was a kid, our Aunt Lydia would come and stay at the farm with us for 2 weeks. (Thinking about the fact that our house was so crowded back then, I am now wondering where she slept. I bet one of my older siblings will remember.) Aunt Lydia's visits were the best. She would re-tell the same stories every year, but we never tired of them. It was also neat because she wore a wig and it was super cool to see her wig resting on top of a small table lamp when she went to sleep at night. And there was also the medicine she took. She always had pills to take and she always would put the pills in a spoon of my mom's homemade jam to swallow them. After the 2 weeks, we'd drive her back to Mason City where she lived. Her son, Kenneth and his wife, Hazel would always pick up Kentucky Fried Chicken for our dinner when we brought Aunt Lydia home. This was a huge treat to us as it was the only time we ever got KFC. I remember Aunt Lydia's house in Mason City actually had a storm shelter area built into the basement. No need to fear storms when we were there.

It never seemed to fail: every year while Aunt Lydia was staying with us, there would be one really bad storm in the middle of the night. All of us (except my dad who went right on sleeping) would be up and scared to death. Aunt Lydia would always grab her purse and have it sitting on her lap while we waited out the storm. I never understood why she did that. I thought it had something to do with her having all her pills in her purse. But if we blew away in a storm, what were the chances of a jar of homemade jam landing next to her so she could take her pills?

As I grew up, I lost a lot of my fear of storms. I think having kids made me face that fear a bit. After all, if they saw me afraid, they were bound to be scared as well. The first house that Eric and I bought backed up to an elementary school. There was a tornado siren in the school yard. When Danielle was little, she was terrified whenever they tested the siren...which was at 1 pm on the first Wednesday of every month. Once, after the siren was tested it kept rotating. There was no longer noise coming from it, but Danielle was terrified to even see it turning. She wouldn't even step outside until it was fixed a couple of days later.

Both my girls inherited my fear of storms. Evan sometimes gets scared of them, but not as bad as the girls. When we bought this house, we learned that in the late 1980's a tornado went right thru this neighborhood. I'm pretty sure we kept that a secret from the kids as long as possible. Once, not long after we moved into this house, there was a nasty storm that went through. We lost 2 trees (one of which narrowly missed hitting the house). Danielle actually seemed to become less afraid after that incident. Lauren's fear only got worse. Much like I was years earlier, she started getting scared if she heard about any storm watches and warnings. And with tv these days, we hear about watches and warnings that are so far away from us that there truly is no need for us to worry. But she still does.

Last year, just before the 4th of July, we had arrived at my in-laws cabin for the holiday. The sky grew very dark and threatening. The kids were terrified and considered hiding in a closet as there is no basement there. I took pictures (from inside) and told the kids that Grandma had just gotten to Heaven. There was no way that she was going to let God send a storm that would hurt us. Thankfully it blew over or they would never believe anything I told them again. A few weeks ago when we arrived at our new cabin in a downpour and found ourselves locked out, Lauren started crying and was very scared. Evan piped up and told her that there was no way Grandma would let a storm hurt us. It made me smile and I'm pretty sure my mom was smiling up in Heaven too. Last weekend, we heard two stories of tornados hitting places on our end of Mille Lacs over the years. We won't tell the kids those stories and I think I might say a few prayers that God puts my mom in charge of where future storms hit up there. (All 3 pictures are from that storm last summer. The lights you can see in 2 of the pictures are reflections of cabin lights, not UFO's.)

Now I actually find storms to be interesting. I love to fall asleep to the sound of rain and thunder. I do get a bit nervous if there are tornado warnings out for us. And we do go to the basement on those occasions.  A couple of nights ago there was a thunderstorm when we went to bed. Evan was sleeping right through the storm, much like my dad would have. Eric was still up, so Lauren climbed into bed with me. I told her not to worry, it was just a thunderstom, nothing severe. She told me it was easy for me to say, since I was never afraid of storms, even when I was little. She would know better if she'd ever seen me curled up hiding next to a refrigerator!

Does God Smell Like a Red Fox?

 

I apologize in advance to any PETA members who might be reading this. Although my dad's official occupation was farmer, I think of him more as a trapper and outdoorsman. He loved to get out in the woods and trap fox and coyote. He would also trap muskrat and mink down by the creek (or crick as he called it). When I first brought Eric to the farm to meet my parents, he would walk my dad's trap line with him. I think the two of them learned a lot about each other on those walks. Eric says my dad was a hillbilly. He means it as a compliment and insists my dad would think of it as one. If you knew my dad, you know Eric is right. We have pictures of hundreds of fox that my dad trapped in his younger years. Selling the hides supplemented the farm income and helped keep all of us kids fed and clothed. I can still remember opening the chest freezer and finding animal hides in it. That is not a pleasant memory. When Daddy could no longer walk the trap lines, he loved to go for car rides down into the valley in the evening to look for deer out in the fields. Eric was always happy to drive him when we were down visiting.

My dad's health had been failing for quite a while. In the summer of 2008, he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. His long time doctor estimated he had 3-6 months to live, but told my sister that "Mr. Betz has surprised me before." For the record, he made it about 8 months. After Christmas of 2008, Daddy was no longer able to walk, even with a walker.

About three weeks before his death, we drove down on a Friday evening. When we got off of I-90 by Houston, we started seeing deer in the fields. This wasn't unusual and we started counting how many we saw. (We always did this and then would tell my dad the count when we got to the farm.) But this night, every field was full of deer. It was like nothing we'd ever seen before. We literally couldn't count all the deer we saw and estimated it to be over 200. I remember that even though I was in awe, I told Eric, "I don't like this." When he asked what I meant, I told him I was afraid my dad wouldn't be alive when we got to the farm. It is hard to explain the feeling I had. It was almost like I felt this is was my dad's view of Heaven...hundreds of deer grazing in the farm fields.

When we made it to the farm, I was told that Daddy was already in bed for the night. We stood in the kitchen and talked with Mother. All of a sudden, Lauren told me that Grandpa was up. I asked her what she meant, since from where we were standing, there was no way that she could possibly see his side of the bed. Then she pointed and said, "He's right there." As I walked toward my parents' bedroom, sure enough, he was sitting on the foot of the bed, on my mom's side. I still don't know how he managed to get himself there. About a week later, I got an e-mail from my sister, Linda, telling of an even more amazing story. She had helped him into bed for a nap one afternoon and gone outside to do some work. My mom sat in the kitchen reading. When my sister came back in to get my dad up, he wasn't in the bed. She found him sitting in the living room chair, with his walker next to him. My mom never heard him. Some how, this man who could no longer walk, even with help, had managed to get out of bed, get to his walker that was well out of reach, and walk to the living room. From stories I read months later, I learned that this actually is not uncommon in the last weeks of a person's life. My mom also told us that 2 days before he died, Daddy was sitting in his chair in the kitchen. He wheeled himself over to the kitchen window by the sink, and pulled himself up to standing and looked out at the farm one last time. That was the last day he would get out of bed.

Within a week of my dad's death, I saw a red fox near our house in Maple Grove. Our lot actually backs up to a wooded area so I wasn't too surprised. We'd seen fox a few times in the 5 years we'd lived here. But during the summer of 2009, I started seeing that red fox all the time. I go for early morning walks, and I saw that fox countless times. There were times when it would just sit and watch me walk by. It never seemed afraid of me. Other times, I wouldn't see the fox, but could smell it's unmistakeable scent. I'm sure some might think I'm crazy, but I just knew it was a sign from God. It always seemed that on the mornings that I felt the lowest and missed my dad the most, the fox was there. This kept happening for about 6 months. One of the last times I saw it that year, I was in our dining room and something happened (which I won't divulge here) and I said out loud, "If this is what I have to look forward to in the future, God help me." I swear that those words were no more than out of my mouth and Danielle yelled from the other room, "Mom, the fox is out back!"

Occasionally I would still see a fox and it always seemed to be at a significant time. In the summer of 2010, Danielle was going on her first mission trip with church. She was 13 and I was still getting the hang of being the mom of a teenager. She made a comment on the morning she was leaving about how getting away from us was one reason for going on the trip. I probably provoked the comment, but at any rate, I was feeling bad after we dropped her off. As we drove home, suddenly there was a small (as in probably teenage) fox running down the side of the road in front of our car. It was the strangest thing and it just hit me that she was fine and we were fine.

On my morning walk one day near the end of May in 2011, I saw a red fox again. It was the first time in a long time that I saw one. I remember e-mailing Jo as soon as I got back from that walk, because it was on that day that Jo and Char were taking my mom to a new doctor in LaCrosse for her back pain. We had done some research and thought this doctor might have the answer to her problem. I was sure seeing the fox that morning was a sign from God that she'd be alright. By the next day, I was even more convinced this was the case. The doctor my mom saw was fantastic. He thought he found the problem and gave my mom a "cocktail injection" in her hip. My sisters and my mom raved over how kind this doctor was and how he went above and beyond his job to help. By the next day, my mom's pain was gone. She was feeling great again. I saw her over Memorial Weekend and couldn't believe the difference. She was talking about the things she was going to do when she got home again, including visiting us in the Twin Cities. I do specifically remember her saying that even if it didn't last, she was so thankful for every day she had without pain.

I still think I was right that the fox I saw that morning was a sign from God. But what I'd forgotten was that God never promised that life would be easy. What he promised is that He would always be with us. He knew we'd need to lean on Him more than ever in the weeks to come.

Mother's pain free days lasted about 2 weeks, and then returned, worse than ever. Within days we would learn that she had renal cancer that had spread to her bones and that the outlook was grim. When my mom was in hospice, a doctor I'd never met before came to visit. It was the doctor who had given her the injection that gave her those two weeks of relief. He had heard that she was in hospice and came to apologize for not having made the correct diagnosis. We hugged him and thanked him for the two wonderful weeks he'd given her. I will never forget that before he left her room, he kissed his own fingers and gently placed them on my mom's forehead.

God was so obviously present with us in hospice. I'm sure I'll write more about it in the coming days.

Most of you know that my sister, Jo, was diagnosed with breast cancer in January and had a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. She is doing great! One morning, before her surgery I came downstairs to make coffee. Something outside caught my eye. As I looked closer, there was a fox in our old sandbox. God was reminding me once again that He is always with us.

This morning when I was almost home from my walk, I noticed movement in the tall grass. As I stopped and looked closer, there was a fox watching me as well. But this one was different than the others I've seen. When I got home, I looked it up on the internet, and I believe it was a gray fox rather than the red fox I have seen before. If my dad was still alive, I know he could tell me for sure.

I know some question whether or not God sends us signs. I've questioned it myself. But when it happens to you, you just know. And I've talked to many people who have had similar experiences. What I truly believe is that God is everywhere at all times. He is constantly sending us signs. We just have to open ourselves up to seeing Him. And it is often when we are at our weakest and most desperate that we finally are willing to truly see what He is showing us. In case you are wondering, I don't think that the fox is a reincarnation of my dad. What I think it that God knows us better than anyone and sends "signs" taylored to each of us. Open your eyes and see what He is showing you.

I will leave you with a quote I recently found that I just love:

"Coincidence is God choosing to remain anonymous."

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!