My mother was a fiercely independent woman. Sure, she lived at home until she was in her early 30s, but she was saving up to buy her own house. She also was taking care of her widowed mother, as she was the single one of the kids.
She had her bowling league, which played every summer. She was so upset when her back finally got to the point where she could no longer throw the ball.
She had her own veggie garden, as a tribute to her farming background, and as an excuse to dig in the dirt. Dad had his way of gardening and she had hers.
Mom often did what she wanted and when she wanted to do it. Some perceived this as being stubborn. Yes, it is stubbornness. But isn't determination also a good thing? It was that independent nature and determination that had her holding down three jobs so that her children could attend the Montessori school all the way through the 6th grade. When she started to have difficulty in her bookkeeping and accounting jobs as the Alzheimer's began to creep into her world, she had the idea of starting up her own business for money. Of course, that wasn't possible because she could no longer mentally handle the pressure. But how many women do you know who are willing to go to such lengths?
When Mom finally started to lose her independence, of course it was extremely hard on her. She had her first car accident ever at the age of about 65. She was rattled from getting her first speeding ticket ever, as she cruised the country roads to get to the church service on time. And she just didn't stop fast enough to avoid the car stopped in front of her at the light in town. Thank God no one was physically injured. It was just her pride.
The most heartwrenching display of her new lack of independence came that last Christmas we all had together in 2010. I had bought Mom a new nightgown. She kept insisting on either wearing a thin pink button-down housedress that was much too cold for that time of year. Or, she would simply sleep in her clothes. I found her a great flannel one that had snowmen on it. I almost wanted to keep it for myself. She pretended to be excited about wearing it, but then was resistant to putting it on. She smelled so bad from having slept in her clothes for about a week. I admit that my father and I both lost our tempers with her. See, she was in that awful stage of sometimes being aware of what was going on and being argumentative, and sometimes really unable to help it. It was frustrating on all of us.
Anyway, I felt bad about snapping at her in my exhaustion. I went back to see if I could talk some sense into her. She was halfway in the nightgown, with her clothes still on, and was stuck in it. She turned to me with tears in her eyes and said, "I just don't know how to put this on."
Both of us started crying as I held my mother in my arms. It was total role reversal. She was the little kid seeking out comfort from her mommy.
When she was done, I helped her get changed into her new nightgown. She admitted that it was definitely much warmer than her other one and that she liked it a lot. She thanked me profusely and kissed me on my forehead. And then we went back into the living room.
I inherited my independent spirit from my mother. I can't imagine what it would be like to see that slowly slipping away from me. I hope I never have to experience that.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
My Mommy Tribute: H is for Happiness
Everyone's life is filled with the good, the bad and the ugly. At some point, though, you have to let go of the bad stuff and move on. When you lose someone, you need to cherish those happy memories.
My childhood was a relatively happy one. I can't really complain about anything. Sure, at the time I would get mad at my parents for saying "No" about something. But in the long run, didn't I end up a better person? (At least I hope so? :-P)
So, here is just a random list of happiness with my mom that I will always cherish....
My childhood was a relatively happy one. I can't really complain about anything. Sure, at the time I would get mad at my parents for saying "No" about something. But in the long run, didn't I end up a better person? (At least I hope so? :-P)
So, here is just a random list of happiness with my mom that I will always cherish....
- Rocking in the oversized stuffed rocking chair after a nightmare.
- Crawling into bed with her when I was sick or scared.
- Having Mom tuck me back in after a nightmare and saying her favorite prayer from when she was a child: "Jesus Dear, be real near, for nothing then, will I need fear."
- Setting up all of my dolls for the Friday night marathon of "Dukes of Hazzard," "Dallas," and "Falcon Crest."
- Getting ice cream at Mr. Freeze.
- Eating at Big Boy before going bowling.
- Eating at Friendly's after school clothes shopping.
- Helping her plant the vegetable garden.
- Watching her and Grandma make applesauce, jams and jellies.
- Learning how to cook and bake.
- Laughing at her crying when my first lemon meringue pie came out "perfect."
- Learning how to drive.
- Putting together jigsaw puzzles. Oh, how I thought I hated it as a kid, but actually enjoy it now.
- Playing silly board games.
- Mom staying up late with me, taking my screams of frustration as I procrastinated, yet again, on a school project.
- Watching Mom color her hair, and the smell of the chemicals.
- Going up to Betty's house to get haircuts and perms.
- Easter Egg hunts
- Sitting up in the church balcony while she played the organ for the service.
- Christmas carols around the organ in our living room.
- Coloring books
- Shopping
- Annual weekend trip to Indiana to visit her sister and my cousins
- Hanging out with her mom, eating peanut butter cookies and drinking chocolate milk, while she picked fresh raspberries for pies, jellies and jams.
- Dragging myself to the annual family reunion so that I could learn who some of these people were
- The repeat stories of her limited babysitting experience.
- Calling her on the phone from babysitting jobs, to let her know how things were going and to benefit from her advice.
- Her bringing in all of the cute babies who visited our store, so that I could meet them
- Watching The Sound of Music.
- Those rare family bike rides at the park
- The football game at Michigan
- Garbage bags for wrapping paper at Christmas
- Unwavering support of all that I did in life
I could probably go on and on and I know I have left off many things. But these are the kinds of memories in which I can wrap myself whenever I miss her.
My Mommy Tribute: G is for Gardening
Because of my mother's farming background, she always did her gardening in a different way than my father. Mom was the queen of straight rows, perfectly lined and balanced. Dad was the artist who thrived on odd numbers and clumps. For that reason, they pretty much agreed to disagree and each one took care of their own garden.
Mom had a big garden in our backyard. Somewhere in a box I have pictures of the big tractor digging it up for us. She wanted to return to her roots and provide some healthy foods for her family. I remember helping her to plant the seeds every year and to help harvest the crops when they were ready. The two plants I remember the most were the green beans (which I love) and the rhubarb (which I can't stand). We also had random asparagus growing in the middle of the backyard. (I hated it then, but enjoy it now.)
When we had food ready to eat, we would enjoy the fresh veggies for dinner. Mom also spent a lot of time canning foods for the fall and winter. It always tasted better than that salty crap in a can. And fresh produce used to hard to come by. I only wish I would have paid more attention to how she did that part of it. I like to grow my own veggies in my own small vegetable patch at my house, but can only enjoy the goodness when it is freshly picked.
Even though my crop isn't nearly as abundant, I still feel close to my mom as I dig in the dirt, planting my bean and tomato plants. I am sure that in her own world in which she lives now, she is out there, as well.
Mom had a big garden in our backyard. Somewhere in a box I have pictures of the big tractor digging it up for us. She wanted to return to her roots and provide some healthy foods for her family. I remember helping her to plant the seeds every year and to help harvest the crops when they were ready. The two plants I remember the most were the green beans (which I love) and the rhubarb (which I can't stand). We also had random asparagus growing in the middle of the backyard. (I hated it then, but enjoy it now.)
When we had food ready to eat, we would enjoy the fresh veggies for dinner. Mom also spent a lot of time canning foods for the fall and winter. It always tasted better than that salty crap in a can. And fresh produce used to hard to come by. I only wish I would have paid more attention to how she did that part of it. I like to grow my own veggies in my own small vegetable patch at my house, but can only enjoy the goodness when it is freshly picked.
Even though my crop isn't nearly as abundant, I still feel close to my mom as I dig in the dirt, planting my bean and tomato plants. I am sure that in her own world in which she lives now, she is out there, as well.
My Mommy Tribute: F is for Farmer
My mother grew up on a farm in Michigan. She often told us stories about following behind the tractor, dropping tomato seeds into perfectly spaced holes. Her job as a child was to feed the chickens. They raised their own steer, so she had way too much red meat growing up. I can hardly think of a time that I saw her willingly eat steak or hamburger. She always talked about learning a bit of Spanish from the migrant workers who helped them out every year. She also developed a passion for teaching as she taught their children some English.
Growing up on a farm gave my mother different perspectives on life. She was very much into home-cooked meals. She taught me the joys of scrambled eggs with hamburger (a.k.a. heart attack in a skillet, but dammit, it was good!). She didn't believe in wasting food nor resources and had a great appreciation for the outdoors. It also taught her about hard work and dedication, something passed down to both of us.
My mother married a city boy and ended up leading a relatively city life. In a way, it was like they compromised, as our store and apartment were placed on a full acre of land. We did have opportunities to visit aunts, uncles and cousins who were continuing somewhat of a farming life. I have fond memories of being dragged around on an ancient pony named Captain and sitting on Uncle Paul's lap steering the tractor. Weddings were complete with square dancing. I think I was the only one of my friends growing up who had any idea how to do it.
We knew that Mom was slipping many years ago when my cousin finally had to tear down the old barn that her father had built by himself. It was a safety hazard and beyond repair. Every time my parents would go visit my father's mother in her assisted living facility, they would meander over the state line to drive past the old farms. It was a shock when the barn was gone, but Mom relived its demise time and time again, every time they drove past.
When I was working toward moving Mom to the facility where Dad originally wanted her placed, I was amazed by the special courtyard in the secure ward. Painted on the large fence is a farm scene, with a large red barn, just like the one my grandfather had built. At first, Mom seemed to appreciate the fence as a work of art. But very quickly she seemed to think of it as a real farm. I remember hearing her tell some visitors about taking care of her farm and pointing out the window. It warms my heart to know that perhaps she is living back in her heyday on that farm with her parents and siblings.
Growing up on a farm gave my mother different perspectives on life. She was very much into home-cooked meals. She taught me the joys of scrambled eggs with hamburger (a.k.a. heart attack in a skillet, but dammit, it was good!). She didn't believe in wasting food nor resources and had a great appreciation for the outdoors. It also taught her about hard work and dedication, something passed down to both of us.
My mother married a city boy and ended up leading a relatively city life. In a way, it was like they compromised, as our store and apartment were placed on a full acre of land. We did have opportunities to visit aunts, uncles and cousins who were continuing somewhat of a farming life. I have fond memories of being dragged around on an ancient pony named Captain and sitting on Uncle Paul's lap steering the tractor. Weddings were complete with square dancing. I think I was the only one of my friends growing up who had any idea how to do it.
We knew that Mom was slipping many years ago when my cousin finally had to tear down the old barn that her father had built by himself. It was a safety hazard and beyond repair. Every time my parents would go visit my father's mother in her assisted living facility, they would meander over the state line to drive past the old farms. It was a shock when the barn was gone, but Mom relived its demise time and time again, every time they drove past.
When I was working toward moving Mom to the facility where Dad originally wanted her placed, I was amazed by the special courtyard in the secure ward. Painted on the large fence is a farm scene, with a large red barn, just like the one my grandfather had built. At first, Mom seemed to appreciate the fence as a work of art. But very quickly she seemed to think of it as a real farm. I remember hearing her tell some visitors about taking care of her farm and pointing out the window. It warms my heart to know that perhaps she is living back in her heyday on that farm with her parents and siblings.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
My Mommy Tribute: E is for Easter
Here I am behind on the A to Z Challenge again. It's okay. At least I am doing it, right? I can't help but think, though, that I was meant to wait for E until today. After all, it is Easter, right? Some of my favorite memories are from our Easters when I was a child.
Mom was a church organist. That meant she had to get up at some God awful hour to go play the organ at a sunrise service. And she left Dad to get us ready for church. Sometimes she would actually have time to come home and get us. As usual, after our 9 o'clock service, Grandma would come to pick us up. Mom always had to play for the 11 o'clock service, which was geared strictly toward adults. Dad was usually at home sleeping in from sponsoring his AA buddies the night before.
Sometimes Dad would join us over at Grandma's for a special Easter brunch. Other times, we would all reconvene later in the day. But no matter what, when we pulled into our driveway, we were always greeted with a special note from the Easter Bunny on our door. We had to follow his instructions to the letter. They often included hanging up our coats in the closet (the only time we would do so) and then running straight back to our bedrooms. Waiting for us was often some small doll or stuffed animal and our empty Easter baskets. There would be another clue sitting on the pillow. We were directed in all kinds of strange patterns throughout the house, into the store, outside in the yard via these little clues printed in brown felt tip pen on index cards.
Some of the clues were straightforward. Some of them were riddles that we had to decipher. We probably spent at least an hour wandering around our little apartment, seeking the little bit of candy and all of those hard-boiled eggs that we colored. I never ate the eggs. I hated the Peeps. I enjoyed the jellybeans, which came from our school's annual fundraiser. My favorites were (and still are) the Cadbury Eggs. Those were few and far between, though. I had to knock my sister out of the way should I spot one. We didn't get much, but we were grateful for what we had. In fact, I didn't realize until I was an adult how little those Easter baskets actually were. I still have mine and use it in my classroom at this time of year.
I always remember thinking how ironic it was that the Easter Bunny had the same handwriting as my mother. Santa Claus had the same handwriting as Dad. When my sister and I had finally outgrown the Easter hunt, I often asked my parents how they pulled that off every year. Mom would always insist, "I don't know what you're talking about. The Easter Bunny did it." Dad would just shrug.
When I hit adulthood and the prospect of having children finally cropped up, I asked again. Mom finally said that when I had my own children, she would share her secrets.
Unfortunately, life doesn't always work out the way we have planned. I do not have any of my own children, for a multitude of reasons both in and out of my control. And Mom no longer has any recollection of our Easter Egg hunts. Somehow, I am okay with that. It keeps the magic alive for me, even as a grown adult.
Happy Easter!
Mom was a church organist. That meant she had to get up at some God awful hour to go play the organ at a sunrise service. And she left Dad to get us ready for church. Sometimes she would actually have time to come home and get us. As usual, after our 9 o'clock service, Grandma would come to pick us up. Mom always had to play for the 11 o'clock service, which was geared strictly toward adults. Dad was usually at home sleeping in from sponsoring his AA buddies the night before.
Sometimes Dad would join us over at Grandma's for a special Easter brunch. Other times, we would all reconvene later in the day. But no matter what, when we pulled into our driveway, we were always greeted with a special note from the Easter Bunny on our door. We had to follow his instructions to the letter. They often included hanging up our coats in the closet (the only time we would do so) and then running straight back to our bedrooms. Waiting for us was often some small doll or stuffed animal and our empty Easter baskets. There would be another clue sitting on the pillow. We were directed in all kinds of strange patterns throughout the house, into the store, outside in the yard via these little clues printed in brown felt tip pen on index cards.
Some of the clues were straightforward. Some of them were riddles that we had to decipher. We probably spent at least an hour wandering around our little apartment, seeking the little bit of candy and all of those hard-boiled eggs that we colored. I never ate the eggs. I hated the Peeps. I enjoyed the jellybeans, which came from our school's annual fundraiser. My favorites were (and still are) the Cadbury Eggs. Those were few and far between, though. I had to knock my sister out of the way should I spot one. We didn't get much, but we were grateful for what we had. In fact, I didn't realize until I was an adult how little those Easter baskets actually were. I still have mine and use it in my classroom at this time of year.
I always remember thinking how ironic it was that the Easter Bunny had the same handwriting as my mother. Santa Claus had the same handwriting as Dad. When my sister and I had finally outgrown the Easter hunt, I often asked my parents how they pulled that off every year. Mom would always insist, "I don't know what you're talking about. The Easter Bunny did it." Dad would just shrug.
When I hit adulthood and the prospect of having children finally cropped up, I asked again. Mom finally said that when I had my own children, she would share her secrets.
Unfortunately, life doesn't always work out the way we have planned. I do not have any of my own children, for a multitude of reasons both in and out of my control. And Mom no longer has any recollection of our Easter Egg hunts. Somehow, I am okay with that. It keeps the magic alive for me, even as a grown adult.
Happy Easter!
Saturday, April 7, 2012
My Mommy Tribute: D is for Daughter
Before my mother became my mother, she was her mother's daughter. The youngest of three kids, she was a typical baby of the family. She got lots of attention, but was still expected to carry her share of the load. She always talked about feeding the chickens, planting the tomatoes, and helping to cook and clean around the house.
Mom was also quite the Daddy's girl. She was working at a local school on the day that Grandpa came in from going to town and collapsed on the floor. Grandma called for the ambulance and then called for her youngest daughter to come home, per her husband's request. Mom arrived at the house just as Grandpa was being wheeled into the ambulance. Her father glanced upon her face and then the ambulance doors were shut. He died on the way to the hospital.
Following her father's death, Mom stayed on at her mother's house, helping to take care of her and to keep her company. When she was 31, she had finally saved up enough money to purchase her own house. She was just far enough away to be on her own, but close enough to rush home at a moment's notice. It was while the two of them were out shopping for furniture that my mother met my father.
After a few years of marriage, my parents finally had me. The daughter became a mother, with a daughter of her own. A couple of years after that, my sister was born. That daughter was now the mother of two daughters of her own.
My parents opened up their own furniture store. Its location was about four miles south of my grandmother's farm, though in a different state. Again, my mother continued to care for her mother. I have many memories of spending time with Grandma in her kitchen, while my mother went berry picking. Grandma would come down to our house, and Mother and Daughter would sweat over making jams and jellies, applesauce, and canning fresh veggies from the garden.
And then Grandma got really sick. Her Alzheimer's had finally gotten to the point where it was not safe for her to live at home anymore. My mother had to make one of the most difficult decisions a daughter can make. She and her siblings had to put Grandma into a nursing home, so that her needs could be properly met in a safe environment.
My mother was a better daughter than I am. She went to visit her mother as frequently as she could. It was hard for her to accept that her mother was slowly losing her memory. As Grandma forgot the world around her, she also forgot about her daughter. I don't think my mother ever got over that. Mom was sick for months after her mother passed away. I think she felt somewhat responsible for her mother's deterioration.
My duty as a daughter kicked into high gear, advocating for my parents a year ago after Mom ran away. I still remember my father calling me at work to say that he was going to pick up Mom from the hospital. "The hell you are!" I shouted in the phone before calling the hospital. I demanded to speak with the nurses and social workers, begging them to help me get my mother into a home. It simply was no longer possible for my father to care for her. And my sister and I both live several hundred miles away from our parents.
I was the daughter who was physically there to help my mother get situated in her current home, as Dad lay in a coma from his brain bleed. (He sustained this from a fall on the ice that happened while he was gathering paperwork to get Mom situated in a home.) My sister shared in the responsibility from afar via phone. I am the daughter who gets that phone call when there is a medical emergency or a simple change in meds. My sister is the daughter who handles all of the legal issues. I am sure Mom and Dad are proud of their two daughters working together.
As for my own identity as a daughter, it is still there. My parents are not here anymore, but once upon a time I was someone's daughter. I still am, on a spiritual level. I have a couple of adoptive mothers who look upon me as their daughter. Perhaps some day I will also be blessed with my own daughter. And then I can share my legacy with her.
Mom was also quite the Daddy's girl. She was working at a local school on the day that Grandpa came in from going to town and collapsed on the floor. Grandma called for the ambulance and then called for her youngest daughter to come home, per her husband's request. Mom arrived at the house just as Grandpa was being wheeled into the ambulance. Her father glanced upon her face and then the ambulance doors were shut. He died on the way to the hospital.
Following her father's death, Mom stayed on at her mother's house, helping to take care of her and to keep her company. When she was 31, she had finally saved up enough money to purchase her own house. She was just far enough away to be on her own, but close enough to rush home at a moment's notice. It was while the two of them were out shopping for furniture that my mother met my father.
After a few years of marriage, my parents finally had me. The daughter became a mother, with a daughter of her own. A couple of years after that, my sister was born. That daughter was now the mother of two daughters of her own.
My parents opened up their own furniture store. Its location was about four miles south of my grandmother's farm, though in a different state. Again, my mother continued to care for her mother. I have many memories of spending time with Grandma in her kitchen, while my mother went berry picking. Grandma would come down to our house, and Mother and Daughter would sweat over making jams and jellies, applesauce, and canning fresh veggies from the garden.
And then Grandma got really sick. Her Alzheimer's had finally gotten to the point where it was not safe for her to live at home anymore. My mother had to make one of the most difficult decisions a daughter can make. She and her siblings had to put Grandma into a nursing home, so that her needs could be properly met in a safe environment.
My mother was a better daughter than I am. She went to visit her mother as frequently as she could. It was hard for her to accept that her mother was slowly losing her memory. As Grandma forgot the world around her, she also forgot about her daughter. I don't think my mother ever got over that. Mom was sick for months after her mother passed away. I think she felt somewhat responsible for her mother's deterioration.
My duty as a daughter kicked into high gear, advocating for my parents a year ago after Mom ran away. I still remember my father calling me at work to say that he was going to pick up Mom from the hospital. "The hell you are!" I shouted in the phone before calling the hospital. I demanded to speak with the nurses and social workers, begging them to help me get my mother into a home. It simply was no longer possible for my father to care for her. And my sister and I both live several hundred miles away from our parents.
I was the daughter who was physically there to help my mother get situated in her current home, as Dad lay in a coma from his brain bleed. (He sustained this from a fall on the ice that happened while he was gathering paperwork to get Mom situated in a home.) My sister shared in the responsibility from afar via phone. I am the daughter who gets that phone call when there is a medical emergency or a simple change in meds. My sister is the daughter who handles all of the legal issues. I am sure Mom and Dad are proud of their two daughters working together.
As for my own identity as a daughter, it is still there. My parents are not here anymore, but once upon a time I was someone's daughter. I still am, on a spiritual level. I have a couple of adoptive mothers who look upon me as their daughter. Perhaps some day I will also be blessed with my own daughter. And then I can share my legacy with her.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
My Mommy Tribute: C is for Christmas
Christmas was always quite the ordeal in our house. My mother was a church organist, so her entire Christmas Eve was always spent playing music at church. When we were younger, we would go along to the early service, so that we would be in bed in time for Santa Claus to come. As we got older, we started to appreciate the value of the candlelight service, instead.
My mother never liked the idea of Santa Claus. My parents had never planned on using that concept with my sister and I. Alas, the influence of kids at school - once we heard about the jolly old man, that was it. So, my father would stay up late, presumably waiting for my mother, meticulously wrapping all of the presents that were carefully arranged under a beautiful tree. She would come home from church late. The two would collapse into bed in the middle of the night. We would wake up really early, eager to open our treasures.
The gifts were always plentiful, but we were never nearly as spoiled as our peers. We always had enough to make it a special Christmas and learned to be grateful for what we had.
As we got older, the joy and surprise of numerous wrapped gifts was no longer necessary. Santa Claus was a symbol of giving and no longer a man in whom we believed. His name was sometimes signed on the gift tags. And then the gift tags became nonexistent. It was becoming too stressful to wrap the presents for us. Dad was now working third shift at the juvenile jail. Mom was the sole person in charge of buying us gifts. We would try to make a list of things that we wanted/needed, but she always got creative. She could never pass up those horrible tables of special items that only come out at the holidays. And we always got identical, or very similar, gifts. There was the CD holder that was a pop-out drawer that always got stuck. And then the AM/FM radio/keychain/flashlight combo. One of my favorites was the heated ice scraper for the windshield. Only to heat it, you had to plug it into the cigarette lighter of a running car. Chances were, by the time you had the stupid thing heated, your defroster had taken care of most of the job.
Even more amusing was how the wrapping ended up being done each year. One year, Mom had run out of time to wrap our gifts. But they were divided by child in large trash bags. My sister and I took turns closing our eyes and reaching into our bags to pull out a gift. After one went, the other would rummage around her bag, trying to find the similar item. We turned it into a big game that was tons of fun.
In the last few years, our parents had basically given up on buying us any gifts. Instead, we usually went shopping with them to pick out a few things. It wasn't the gifts that we wanted, though. It was the cherished time with our parents.
My other Christmas memories with Mom include sitting around our organ. Yes, we had an organ in my childhood home. Mom had lots of Christmas sheet music. She would sit on the bench with my sister and I on either side and we would sing Christmas carols for hours on end. That was the only time of the year that we really did that. I looked forward to it every year and still enjoy the songs when I hear them on the radio. I miss those days a lot.
My mother never liked the idea of Santa Claus. My parents had never planned on using that concept with my sister and I. Alas, the influence of kids at school - once we heard about the jolly old man, that was it. So, my father would stay up late, presumably waiting for my mother, meticulously wrapping all of the presents that were carefully arranged under a beautiful tree. She would come home from church late. The two would collapse into bed in the middle of the night. We would wake up really early, eager to open our treasures.
The gifts were always plentiful, but we were never nearly as spoiled as our peers. We always had enough to make it a special Christmas and learned to be grateful for what we had.
As we got older, the joy and surprise of numerous wrapped gifts was no longer necessary. Santa Claus was a symbol of giving and no longer a man in whom we believed. His name was sometimes signed on the gift tags. And then the gift tags became nonexistent. It was becoming too stressful to wrap the presents for us. Dad was now working third shift at the juvenile jail. Mom was the sole person in charge of buying us gifts. We would try to make a list of things that we wanted/needed, but she always got creative. She could never pass up those horrible tables of special items that only come out at the holidays. And we always got identical, or very similar, gifts. There was the CD holder that was a pop-out drawer that always got stuck. And then the AM/FM radio/keychain/flashlight combo. One of my favorites was the heated ice scraper for the windshield. Only to heat it, you had to plug it into the cigarette lighter of a running car. Chances were, by the time you had the stupid thing heated, your defroster had taken care of most of the job.
Even more amusing was how the wrapping ended up being done each year. One year, Mom had run out of time to wrap our gifts. But they were divided by child in large trash bags. My sister and I took turns closing our eyes and reaching into our bags to pull out a gift. After one went, the other would rummage around her bag, trying to find the similar item. We turned it into a big game that was tons of fun.
In the last few years, our parents had basically given up on buying us any gifts. Instead, we usually went shopping with them to pick out a few things. It wasn't the gifts that we wanted, though. It was the cherished time with our parents.
My other Christmas memories with Mom include sitting around our organ. Yes, we had an organ in my childhood home. Mom had lots of Christmas sheet music. She would sit on the bench with my sister and I on either side and we would sing Christmas carols for hours on end. That was the only time of the year that we really did that. I looked forward to it every year and still enjoy the songs when I hear them on the radio. I miss those days a lot.
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