Doing Hard Things

Living, I mean really living and not just getting through each day, might just be the hardest thing I do. Some days it's easier than others but no day is easy and remembering why I work so hard at it takes a lot of effort.

So, since it just makes sense to make things easier when you can, I'm going to spend the next sixteen days making a list of things in my life for which I am grateful. Some will be big and some not so much. In no particular order, each will be something that makes me smile, helps to center me, and keeps me moving in a generally forward direction.

Today's thing, first on my list, are my nieces and nephews; Britt's precious cousins. For those of you who don't know, I have six brothers and sisters (three of each) and among them they have twelve beautiful children. I used to dream of being an only child, but Britt did not love it. She was fortunate, though, to live close to some of her cousins and to get to visit the others. She adored her Capital C Cousin, Christopher. They were inseparable for most of their childhoods. She loved to talk about the weekend she spent at college with her cousin Amanda, and the time she went to Elizabeth City and her cousin Sean took her to coffee shop called "Muddy Waters." She went on a cruise with her cousins Bobby and Megan and her oldest cousin Susan's college graduation made her cry. Her little cousin Anna, born just a few months before her high school graduation, stole her heart. She never met her littlest cousin, Jack; he'll be two next week.

She loved her cousins with a fierceness that, not being an only child, I never quite understood. I love them, too, and am grateful for all the ways they remind me - every day - that good things continue to happen and that time, and I, must keep moving.

And, since no post is complete without at least one picture, here's one of my favorites: Britt as Bridesmaid to her cousin Amanda, in September of 2004.

Found Treasures

One of the great things about gardening at an old house is the untold number of gardeners who've been there before you. Some of their handiwork is very obvious: the monstrous azaleas that flank the front steps, evergreen and tidy (with regular pruning!) that burst into hot pink glorious-ness at the first hint of spring; the deep-blue hydrangea at the corner of the front porch that blooms all summer and marks North East truer than the truest compass; the stately line of pecan trees that marches down the side yard, shading the house in summer, allowing the sun to warm us in the winter, and providing enough nuts for dozens of pies and cookies and brownies in between.


There are also the not-so-obvious things: the clumps of snowbells that randomly sprout and bloom near the front steps and in the side yard - out of zone and out of season and charming with their tiny white-with-green-polka-dots flowers; the amazing not-an-agapanthus that became three huge plants when I dug it up and moved it earlier this year (which is, by the way, something called a crinum lily and which continues to bloom at regular intervals. This picture was taken about an hour ago using the "night" setting on my camera); the confederate jasmine that has exploded in the corner where the hose-holder-with-faucet lives and which I am training to run down the railing of the back steps.

And, then, there is this:


One lone beautiful red lily that sprouted in the middle of the side yard. I've been here three summers now, and never seen that lily before. And if weeks of intermittent afternoon rains combined with these endless weeks in a sling hadn't conspired to keep us from mowing the grass, that lily wouldn't have stood a chance. I dug it up (obviously) and have every intention of replanting it in the back yard...and when I did, I also found these:


a handful of bulbs, each one waiting to be another lily! Some are now planted by the back gate and some have moved around the corner to my mama's house. All of them are a reminder that at least some of what we do in our brief time on this earth lasts, in ways we cannot possibly imagine, for years and years after we are gone.

The House of Many Colors (or, How Even a Good Memory Can Hurt)

Years ago, we moved to the suburbs. Britt was starting middle school (6th grade) at a time when Savannah/Chatham County's middle schools were really struggling with security issues (drugs, random acts of violence, frequent lock-downs involving police squads and locker-sniffing dogs); in short, not the sort of environment we wanted for our girl. At the urging of her elementary school teachers, we sold our cool downtown town-home and hightailed it to the next county. For me, the move was disastrous. I found myself the only working mom on a cookie cutter cul-de-sac, with a one-way, hour long commute, and a brand new prescription for Celexa.

I starting painting the new house (decorated in seventeen shades of pink by the previous owners) and all the walls slowly turned to taupe. After the third room, Britt became a little alarmed. "Are all the rooms going to be this color?" she asked skeptically. "Mostly" I said. I pulled out all the designer talked I learned in my years at the design firm. Taupe is an excellent neutral. Taupe is a perfect backdrop. Taupe is timeless. Taupe, truly, was how I felt on the inside and I wanted to surround myself with its numbing sameness, one room at a time. "Ick" was her reply. And then, she looked me in the eye and "One day, I am going to have my own house and every room is going to be a different color, bright and flashy, and it will drive you crazy, mama." And then she flashed me a wicked grin and I laughed and allowed as she was probably right but that I would visit anyway and try to bite my tongue. But, that was a long way off and I did let her pick a vibrant blue for her room and we moved on.

Fast forward eleven years to this funky little farm house on the edge of town. I spent the weekend of August 8th and 9th painting the kitchen a bright apple green. And, as I wandered from room to room gathering supplies and taking short breaks, I slowly realized that - unconsciously - we have created the house of Britt's long-ago dreams. I was standing on the counter (not - regardless of what some people might say - an unreasonable place to be while a painting a kitchen) lost in the memory of that conversation and thinking how much she would really love the yellow living room, the red dining room, the new apple-y kitchen...and walked right off the counter into mid-air. Gravity being a law and not a suggestion, the moments that followed were not pretty. Urgent care visit, x-rays, sling....waiting for an MRI and hoping that I wont need surgery to repair a torn tendon or muscle in order to regain the use of my arm...yada, yada. I hope they get it sorted out and fixed soon, because the guest room is next on the painting list. I'm thinking a reddish orange...Britt would like that.

Finally, because no post is complete without pictures, here are a few shots of The House of Many Colors.

The living room:


The dining room:


And a couple of views of the kitchen (which still needs new curtains, but is otherwise finished, thanks to Dave who valiantly jumped in at the end and tied up all my loose ends):

Family Portraits

Tonight, it's pictures again.

Christmas, 1989

Noon Day Baptist Church, Swainsboro, GA
Harbuck Family Reunion, 1990

Britt's High School Graduation - Effingham County High School - May 21, 2004

Cousin

Britt has a lot of cousins. There are a cool dozen of them and she loved each one of them* in the way that perhaps only an only child can. But, though she had so many cousins, she had only one Cousin.

Cousin was what she called my nephew Christopher. Christopher is nine months older than Britt and for years they were inseparable. They went to school together, played together, and got in trouble together. And when she died, his heart broke right along with ours. The years since have been hard for him.

Today, I spent a few hours editing Cousin's college application essay and talking to him about his plans for the future. Britt would love the idea of him off at college...of him making plans. I love it, too.

*Britt never met her littlest cousin, Jack, but she would have loved him to pieces.

Modern-Day Dilemmas

Today I heard a bittersweet story about an old man and a digital picture frame. The old man in this story has early onset dementia and having pictures around helps him to remember faces he might otherwise forget. It also helps his caregivers to have a glimpse or several of the wonderful life he lived Before. So, in this very modern age, his daughters thought a digital picture frame would be a wonderful gift for him. Makes sense, yes? After all, space is limited in those assisted living places and there are only so many surfaces and so much wall space to accommodate frames. With a digital frame you can have hundreds of pictures...perfect. Only, not so much. One day, the daughters noticed that the old man had covered the picture frame with an article of clothing. Not one casually tossed, but one carefully placed to hide the pictures. When questioned, he explained that the picture frame made him uncomfortable. He'd look and see one picture and them look at it again and it was changed. And then changed again. He thought his mind was playing terrible tricks on him and he couldn't bear it.

I have one of those digital picture frames, too. I mostly love it. It was a present from Dave and he has loaded it with hundreds of pictures from the last last twenty-something years. It sits on my desk at work and every morning I boot up my computer and turn on my frame. Like most things that are there all the time it's mostly background after a year; like the pictures on my bookshelves and the framed certificates on my wall, I don't spend a whole lot of time just looking at it. But, every once in a while, I happen to glance over at it and am struck by the image on the screen. And every once in a while I am just felled by one and have to leave my office and go outside to the little smoking patio in the back and talk to the lab cats and collect myself. Like this one, of Britt crabbing on Kilkenny Creek. This one gets me every time.

Riding the Wave

Not long ago, I was completely undone when I spotted a ladybug in my garden. My girl loved ladybugs and used to bring them to me whenever she found one so I could make a wish on it before she let it go. I never knew where she got the idea for making wishes on ladybugs. I asked her once when she was about eight and she just shrugged and said 'I've always known that.' It's been a long since I've paid close enough attention to spot something as small as a ladybug and that one took me by surprise and not in a good way. For the first time, though, the aftermath of a sneaker wave wasn't all bad. A lot of good memories came in on that tide. I think that's progress and to celebrate, I'd like to share the gift that David gave me for Mother's Day:


Take that, Wave. I'm learning to tread water.

Camping

Recently my friend Lisa mentioned camping and I realized how very long it's been since I slept outside. Back when Britt was young, she loved being a Girl Scout and we camped a lot. Her high school years didn't leave a lot of time for camping; she was busy singing and dancing and acting and writing. But the last time I talked to her, two days before she died, one of things we talked about was camping out on the dock of the new house I was moving into that day. Summer was coming and the time for sleeping out and laughing and talking into the night was nigh. It never came but I wish it had. She was an excellent camper.

Perfect Timing

In mid-April, as my least favorite time of the year hit with a vengeance, I threw myself into making a garden in the backyard. I broke sod, dug a plot, shopped for plants, and hauled mulch. I borrowed tools and robbed Peter to pay Home Depot. I raided my mom's yard for odds and ends and statuary that she's been holding on to for me for years.

This is where we started, four weeks ago on April 19th:

And this is where we are today:


Mother's Day is drawing to a close. This year, I did not scream at anyone except Dave (who understands and whose turn is coming); I did not hear from everyone I thought I would and I heard from a few people who surprised me in the best possible way (that happens every year on these hard days and I probably shouldn't keep that tally in my head but I do, and I probably shouldn't be surprised and disappointed each time, but I am).

Darling Anna and Jack came to visit me, courtesy of their parental-units; here they are, sitting on the coffee table with their beautiful mother:


Every one is at home now, and the planting is finished. After four weeks of spending every available minute of daylight working/digging/moving/sweating, there's nothing to do now but water when the rains are delayed and wait. Couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it.

Mother's Day

If ever there's a day that's fraught with landmines and potential sneaker waves after you've lost a child it's this one. So far, this particular one has been pretty smooth. (It's early and I hope I haven't jinxed it.) I've been bustling about, catching up on the chores I've been neglecting while I've been obsessing over the vegetable garden and just letting the memories come as they will. One is especially sweet.

The year that Britt was seven she asked if she could throw a party for 'ALL the mommies' in her life. She invited me (I was flattered), both her grandmothers, my grandmother, and her aunts who lived in town. Everyone accepted and she was very excited about hosting her first grownup party. We had pastries and coffee and iced tea. There was lots of laughter (she graciously allowed her father to attend and eat some things but not some of everything because, after all, he was NOT a mommy). The best part, though, were the gifts, because she'd worked so hard on them and was so proud. She presented each of us with a strawberry pot filled with impatiens. Mine was larger than the others (flattered again), but they were all lovely and I was very proud of both her accomplishment and her sweetness.


Being Britt's mom is still the best gift ever. This pot was a pretty great one, too.

Marigolds for My Girl

Britt loved marigolds. She used to call planting them 'growing sunshine'. Our early flower gardens were mostly shaded and not particularly suited to growing them. She nurtured them in small pots in sunny spaces and wished for a huge, sunny yard. Then, that wish came true and we spent four years with a huge yard that got lots of sun. Every year, after we planted the vegetable garden, she and I would make a special trip to the nursery and gather some of every sort of marigold they had. Orange, red, yellow, small and big and even the giant African marigolds came home with us. We'd plant them around the vegetables like sentinels and she loved that her Growing Sunshine also helped to kept the pests away.

So, last night, in the last empty space in the vegetable plot, I planted a row of marigolds for my girl. We could all use a little extra sunshine, yes?

Sneaker Waves

When I first moved to the West Coast, I learned about sneaker waves. They are these little bastards of waves that come out of nowhere and suddenly, without warning, are HUGE bastards of waves that suck whatever (or whomever) happens to be on the beach out to sea. Scary shit, those sneaker waves, not least because you never see them coming.

Grief, my friends and I have decided, is a series of sneaker waves. Sometimes, after the wave has receded, you will know what triggered it. Sometimes not. Sometimes it's a Big and Obvious thing. Sometimes not. Like today. Today's sneaker wave was courtesy of this itty-bitty ladybug, perched on a cucumber leaf.

One day, I really ought to learn how to swim.