The End

It's all gone. I can't say anything else.

Coming to an End

In the ongoing story of my mother's farm being sold and her moving, we are coming to the final steps.

She is happily ensconced in her name place.  She had a house cleaner. (I'm jealous, but it's not in my budget.)

The state has now taken possession of the property and is tearing the buildings down.

These buildings were built after a tornado destroyed them a day or two after my brother was born. He was born early and no one had expected him to survive the delivery. Many people from the community helped my parents get back on their feet and their efforts went into many of the buildings.

It seems like such a waste that the barns and silos are simply being bulldozed or blown up. My brother says they will burn down the house soon. I hope the fire department will use the fire for practice putting them out. It will seem less pointless that way.

And that is the last step. The farm will exist only in our memories.

The Last Walk Through

The day we moved my mom to her new house was very organized.  Everyone had a job including my kids.  Their job was to entertain Grandma and keep her from getting anxious while everyone else packed up her things and hauled them to her new house. We took her to the park and she got to watch the kids climb and run and play.  My niece made her day by falling asleep on her lap.

When we left, the old house still looked like itself. Mostly. The pictures were off the walls, but the furniture was still in the places it had been for decades.

When we returned from the park, we went directly to her new house. We had lunch. The kids took an abbreviated nap and everyone worked on moving furniture into place and putting it away.

By the time we were finished, the kids had deteriorated to the goofy-tired stage and we went straight home. I didn't get a chance to leave the old place knowing this was the last time I would go there.

It bothered me.  I couldn't think of my mom and not picture her at the old house. I couldn't imagine her not living there. I couldn't imagine her belongings not being there, even though I had seen them in her new house.

Last Thursday, it was pouring so I thought it would be a good day for the kids to be in their carseats for a couple hours. We went to the old house and I walked through it one last time.

My mom saved pretty much everything she'd ever received and every nook and cranny of the house had been full.  Now it was completely empty.  The closets were cleared out. The pictures were off the walls. Every corner was open. The furniture gone. Very little was left behind.  A cricket chirped in the basement. My dad's pencil sharpener was still mounted to the wall where his desk had been.

My final walk through didn't take long. Maybe five minutes, but it was enough.

I am at peace.

My mother doesn't live here

More steps toward the inevitable.

Last Saturday, we packed up my mother's furniture and hauled it to her new house. My brothers and sisters spent the day arranging each piece in her new place, making everything convenient and inviting for her.

My husband installed her antique chandelier above her dining room table. My sister-in-law arranged her depression glassware in a china cabinet that I'd never seen anything but Christmas and birthday cards inhabit.
Familiar pictures found places on the walls and her refrigerator magnets were made comfortable on a new fridge door.

By the time we left with three exhausted kids, the new place had become her home. It looked like she lived there.

I haven't seen my mom's empty house yet.  I can't imagine walking in and not seeing the pictures of preserves around the kitchen or the family photographs covering the wall around the fireplace.  I think until I do, I won't believe that she doesn't live there anymore. But maybe, I only need to see her in her new house comfortable with her space.

Haunted Sewing Machine, part 2

My husband fixed my sewing machine.  It no longer runs by itself.  Well, I've only plugged it in once, but it did no spontaneous sewing during that time.

I am itching to start sewing more.  I recently inherited my mom's filing cabinet full of patterns and after two days of sorting, I have them straightened out.  Some of the patters had been well-used ans scattered throughout her sewing room, so I had to find the envelope and tuck them back in.

Her sewing patterns had been acquired over several decades. Some I remember from flea markets.  Some I picked out for special occasions. Easter. My brother's wedding (eek.). Prom (WHAT was I thinking?) And some she inherited from friends and family.  My favorites were the envelopes inscribed with my mother's maiden name or my aunts' names.

As I sorted through them I recognized dresses from my sister's school pictures and scraps of fabric from my mother's shirts.  I also saw patterns that I had looked at a hundred times while trying to pick out a dress for my mom to make.

My husband was less than excited about the cache of menswear now available to him. Every leisure suit he could ever want - all we need is the perfect double-knit polyester.

He's probably even less excited about the four boxes of dusty paper that now inhabit our guest room, but they bring back so many memories.

One Piece at a Time

My mother's farm is being sold to the state so that they can build a highway through it.

It is where she lived for more than fifty years.  It is the property my parents bought when they got married and farmed though thick and thin, good weather and tornadoes.  The house and barns were built through their own hard work either by sweating in the fields to earn the money or by  building it themselves.

My brother put together the auction for the farm equipment, cleaning the tractors, wagons, planters, rakes and other implements I couldn't even tell you the name of.  My dad retired and my brother took over part-time shortly after I started school.  Most of the equipment was thirty years old and I had no idea whether any modern farmer would be interested in it.

But they came with trucks and trailers to haul their purchases home and filled the field in front of the house.

As the auctioner moved through the field, I remembered:  sitting in the corner of the tractor cab with a book as my dad plowed a field, listening as he explained how to make the rows straight, or seeing the lights of the combine traversing a dark field because the corn had to be harvested before the snow came.  I remembered my brothers with sweat and grime coating their skin as they heaved bales from the baler and stacked them on the wagon. I can smell the dust and the hay and blink against the stinging hot sun.

We are slowly saying good-bye to these things.  The stuff we couldn't throw away that had accumulated in the basement - this spring.  The farm equipment - last month.  The house - next month.

One step at a time and it will only be a memory.

"Where your street has no name"

This summer my mother will be moving.  She's lived at her current residence for over fifty years.  She and my dad designed the split-level ranch and went through many joys and traumas on that property.

She lives there alone and will be eighty this year.  While her health has been good, she's not as spry as she once was and moving to a house with less stairs would be a good option.

The reason for her move has nothing to do with her health or mental state. The state wants to build a highway next to her house.  The limited access highway will cut off access to her property. It will be too expensive to build a bridge for her and the other three residents of the area, so the state is buying the whole property. They will likely demolish the house, the barns and other outbuildings as well as eliminate the road that accesses it.

Things change.  And the timing of this with my mother's age and health is probably good.  Yet it is hard to wrap my head around the idea.  The house I grew up in will no longer be there.  We won't even be able to visit the property because the road will be gone.  And when we see it, it will be unrecognizable.  It will exist as it was only in my memory and right now that doesn't seem like enough.

Dropped Spoons

Whenever we dropped a spoon when I was little, my mother would say "Company's coming."

I figured this was an Old Wives' Tale similar to 'If your palm itches, you are going to get some money.' Or 'If your nose itches, it means you are going to kiss a fool.'  My palms never itch, so I can't prove or disprove that one, but my nose often does.  I don't know what this says about my husband.

Mostly I'm thankful that the dropped spoon prophesy doesn't seem to be the case either.  At any meal, I pick up at least six spoons.  That could be up to 18 visitors per day!  I don't need that many people seeing the man-made disaster my house is on a daily basis.

Just Like My Mother

There are things you swear to yourself you will never do.  Mostly because your mother did them and you are NOT going to be just like her.

I said I would never try to hide one food in something else to get my children to eat it.

My mother took devilish glee in doing this as many in my family will concur. If my mother served hamburger surprise, you didn't ask what type of meat it was.  It was just a surprise. If  it was thick soup, you can be sure a multitude of vegetables that you could bare to have touch your tongue would be lurking in it.

Her special delight was using every single zucchini that grew in her garden (and this wasn't a small patch of tomatoes and herbs.  It was at least a half acre with several hills of zucchini.  My mom was probably the reason the story about locking your car door during zucchini season was started.) All of these zucchinis went into the usual recipes: stews, breads and cakes.  And the not so usual ones: apple crisp and pizza.

The apple crisp was particularly cruel.  It smelled wonderful and I looked forward to it the whole meal.  Then I went to cut a piece.  The apples appeared more green than any cooked apples I'd ever seen.  (My mom peels the zucchini so that the dark green exterior does not give its presence away.)  I took a bite, and despite the cinnamon and brown sugar topping, the flavor was off.  Then I saw the seeds.  NOT apple seeds.  sigh.

Her favorite camouflage was pizza. She claims she only did this one, but my brother and I doubt it.  Either that  or the horror is so ingrained in us that we imagine she did it every week.  At some point, we'd come to accept that zucchini's sliminess contaminated all our food.  For the pizza, Mom peeled and shredded it, then layered it  under the cheese. It appeared slightly more green and less melted than the actual cheese.  She served the pizza and waited while  my brother and I dug in.  Pizza was a rare and special treat.  After we'd taken and swallowed our first bite, she inquired how we liked it.  My brother said it was good.  I nodded in agreement.  She practically danced in her chair.  "There's zucchini in it!"

Now as I prepare food for my children with my limited cooking skills, I start to wonder how I could entice them to eat something different and the thought crosses my mind, "What if I ground up some tomatoes and put them on their quesadillas?"

I shudder.

What do you do that reminds you of your mother?