Today is my glorious mother's birthday. My sister and I have planned a perfect night in; Scrabble, Velvet Chicken, Vaughn Monroe, and some chatting by the fire.
In honor of mom's birthday, Cole decided to write a special poem. I think it sums her up rather nicely:
For My Grandma
by Cole Wilson
Roses are Pink
Violets are Red
But everything is Grandma
The End
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Oops there goes another.....
My grandmother had a green thumb that may even put Mr. Green Jeans and Liberty Hyde Bailey, Jr. to shame. She was the type of gardener that would scout the local stores for the sickly sad little plants whose prices had been slashed for a quick sale. Lovingly and patiently she would nurse them into healthy and huge oxygen producers.
One of her largest success stories came in the form of a rubber tree plant, more like a sprig, that was purchased on sale from K-mart. It was the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree of rubber tree plants. She was able to take the little plant from a sparse twig to a tree that strained to escape the confines of her cathedral ceilings.
Over the years, my grandmother would give visiting family members and friends clippings from this prodigious plant. It was one of the only ways that she could keep the beast contained and she loved "passing it on". There are cuttings spattered across this coast from Florida to New Jersey.
My mother now has the largest surviving sprig of The Rubber Tree plant. Last night, Trey and I helped to re-locate the plant inside as the first of the winter frosts was set to descend upon Virginia Beach. Moving the tree takes two adults on the bottom, with the help of some well placed furniture movers, and a third adult positioned at the top of the plant to help coax the branches through the doorways. Now that we have the process down to a science, we can get the monster moved in under 10 minutes.
The Rubber Tree has become an odd tradition in our life. When we call mom, we usually ask about how the tree is faring. Does it seem happy in its new location? Has it been set a kilter by the wind? Clearly, this tree and its well-being intermingles with our happy memories of my grandmother.
Yesterday, my mother thoughtfully cut me a new sprig off the tree so that I could plant it here at our new place so I could have my own reminder of my grandmother at my own home. She carefully placed it in a bucket of water to root. She gently reminded me to remember to put it in the car before I left.
I forgot it...
One of her largest success stories came in the form of a rubber tree plant, more like a sprig, that was purchased on sale from K-mart. It was the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree of rubber tree plants. She was able to take the little plant from a sparse twig to a tree that strained to escape the confines of her cathedral ceilings.
Over the years, my grandmother would give visiting family members and friends clippings from this prodigious plant. It was one of the only ways that she could keep the beast contained and she loved "passing it on". There are cuttings spattered across this coast from Florida to New Jersey.
My mother now has the largest surviving sprig of The Rubber Tree plant. Last night, Trey and I helped to re-locate the plant inside as the first of the winter frosts was set to descend upon Virginia Beach. Moving the tree takes two adults on the bottom, with the help of some well placed furniture movers, and a third adult positioned at the top of the plant to help coax the branches through the doorways. Now that we have the process down to a science, we can get the monster moved in under 10 minutes.
The Rubber Tree has become an odd tradition in our life. When we call mom, we usually ask about how the tree is faring. Does it seem happy in its new location? Has it been set a kilter by the wind? Clearly, this tree and its well-being intermingles with our happy memories of my grandmother.
Yesterday, my mother thoughtfully cut me a new sprig off the tree so that I could plant it here at our new place so I could have my own reminder of my grandmother at my own home. She carefully placed it in a bucket of water to root. She gently reminded me to remember to put it in the car before I left.
I forgot it...
Another Departure
I love you.
I'll be back soon.
The deep sound of footsteps disrupt a dark day's start.
A kiss.
shallow silence
Awake again.
I'll take care of you.
I gaze at an image of a pasted face.
Which mask today?
simple survival
Come back.
I'll never leave.
Happiness may once again mingle with reality.
I remember who I am
with you
I'll be back soon.
The deep sound of footsteps disrupt a dark day's start.
A kiss.
shallow silence
Awake again.
I'll take care of you.
I gaze at an image of a pasted face.
Which mask today?
simple survival
Come back.
I'll never leave.
Happiness may once again mingle with reality.
I remember who I am
with you
Friday, November 14, 2008
Life is Beautiful
I am officially an adult child of divorce.
My absence from the world of blogging has been in large part due to the fact that my parents have decided to divorce after 37 years of marriage. I have no words to describe the bevy of emotions that I have been through recently. I have had to completely reorganize my own understanding of my identity and sense of self. I am sure that later blog entries will serve as a sort of therapy for some of the unresolved feelings. But, today, it struck me that it is high time to get back to the things I value in life.
Mostly, I value life. I want to enjoy this life I have been given, and recording the daily musings of my little life makes me feel happy. During my blog sabbatical, I took to writing in my bedside journal....it seemed less public and more appropriate for some of the things that were pouring forth from my heart and soul. This small act of 'journaling' is something that I have not done since I was pregnant with my first goon, and I found that I truly missed the intimate act of recording my thoughts with ink and paper. I can retrace my state of mind not only in the meaning of the words but in the handwriting, the strokes, the pressure to paper, and sometimes the occasional water mark. It has become a lost Art.
Here is to a new beginning. One that I promise to approach with honesty and a truer sense of self.
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