Sweet Memories

It's 2 am.  Andy is soundly sleeping.  I'm not -

We spent the day in Houston with the LaMores yesterday.  It was a day planned a couple of months ago - before Mom passed away.  Time to go through the house to finish the move that began a couple of years ago, after Mom's last bad fall.  Time to move on to the next stage in the house on Hazelhurst.

Mom and Dad bought the house after Albert, the baby, was born.  She'd moved into the house on Vilven with Dad, Andy and Bruce after marrying him following Margaret's death.  The house was too small, and the bigger house was a neccessity.  It was her house, and yesterday was the day in which that part of her life- and theirs- was brought full circle.

Our nephew, Kyle, lives in the house now.  As we entered, it was the same, and yet so different.  His stuff mixed among the rest.  Some rooms the exact same, some vastly different.  Most startling to me was the living room; Mom's oasis.  Always perfectly in order, always calm and soothing.  Always Anne.  It was where you almost needed permission to be - one of those "throwback" living room/dining room combos of the 50s.  Now, it was ramshackled and picked over - some furniture taken to the Hampton to make it feel more like home, some pieces eerily still in their place.  Her clock on the wall, silent.  Her scary black sculpture piece from Indonesia that was so "her".  The perfectly dusted end tables, now cluttered with things out of place.  Where was the organ that sat in the corner?  The maps still hung on the wall....  yet it was still the same.  I used to quietly sneak into that room for a few moments during each visit, because it was such a place of peaceful calm.  Now, it was just a store room of stuff that needed to be sorted through.

The sweet memories came throughout the day, and I want to post them now, while they are fresh on my mind.

Dad sitting at the table, with Albert.  Going through box after box of his precious books.  Some are going with him to the Hampton; a vast majority of them are destined for Half-Price Books.  I see Dad sitting with his son, sharing some memory, with the most beautiful smile on his face.  It was the most relaxed I'd seen him in months - laughing at something I was not privy to.  Later, after a simple lunch at Mom's table, he sat with Bruce as Bruce read a poem for him from the one book in the thousands that had that particular poem nestled inside it's pages.  So private a moment between father and son....

Bruce laughing over a recipe book he'd made in Elementary school and given to his mom; the St. Nicholas figurine he'd given to Mom one Christmas.

Albert laughing with joy at finding Christine's beloved stuffed turtle.  So glad she'd have it to take home with her.

Andy, holding onto Mom's silver spoons.  And the two volumes (among the thousands) on Winston Churchill that he's looked for.

Learning the story of the small, wooden box found in the back bedroom.  Evidently, it was taken to church and coal was put it in.  You sat with it under your dress to keep you warm during the winter.  It sits here in my home now. 

The brass elephants, once belonging to the collection of Aunt Ruth.

A small wooden step stool that they'd all used.  Bruce recited from memory the little saying that was once painted on - worn away many years ago by little feet.

The wooden bookshelf Andy made in the garage with his dad.  It will come home with us on the next trip.

My treasure of the day; the final remaining pieces of Margaret's Franciscan Apple dishes.  As far as I know, they are the last remaining items once touched by her hands.  Two plates.  A couple of saucers.  A sugar bowl.  Tangible items that remain of a life lost so young.  I wanted them for my girls,  to have SOMETHING that was hers.

And the photographs.  Taken one by one out if the frame to be scanned and returned to the proper family.

But the memory that shook me to my core was while I was sorting items in the living room.  Almost all of Mom's clothing had been gone through a while back, but I came upon a few hidden pieces.  I lifted one of the items to my face, and her smell hit me like a brick.  I drew in long, deep breaths and smiled - amidst all the confusion of the room, I felt her quiet, serene presence there with me.  My first tears since her death. 
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This was an intimate day that on one hand was just something that had to be done.  Another thing to check off the list of getting on with life.  But it was so much more.  It was intimate.  It was personal.  It was loving.  We did it well.