I'm Still Here Sweetheart

I knew it would hit. Not like a freight train, knocking me down hard. But I knew grief would start appearing. 

Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in September 2019. She was aware of her memory lapses, and navigated it as gracefully as she could. We continued to remind her that she was safe with us and we'd take care of her. As the symptoms progressed I started losing Mom back then. Each time we'd get together, she'd become more isolated, her world closing in. Personality changes started to appear. We had a long period of rebellion, denial, anger. That was the hardest time. In my sister and my eyes, Mom was acting like a child and we were having to parent her, and a few times yell.  We didn't grow up with yelling and here I was screaming at her to try to get through to her about how her choices were selfish and dangerous. And then minutes later, she didn't remember that I had come so unglued. 

I told myself that I'd already starting grieving over the loss of my Mom and yet I could still talk to her, spend time with her, and be with her physical presence. I told myself that I was given a long time to process the loss of her, thinking it would be easier when she finally passed. 

In her last days on Earth Mom told us that she'd be with us, we'd have her forever and always. Not alive, but in our hearts, and it the space between. She gave us a connection to look for. I shared on social media, a bit of a eulogy, her reminder to look for her as we look into the setting sun. The blink refers to the very moment the sun sets below the horizon. She always waited and stared at the horizon to see the blink:

Waiting for the blink. 

Each day the sky is different and Mom was different. 

I was lucky enough to spend 6 beautiful weeks with Mom at the ocean this year. As much as I could, I’d get her down to the beach to enjoy the beautiful sunset and appreciate the expanse of the ocean. 

Mom would say as we waited for the sun to set, “Wendy most people don’t wait for the blink. They don’t see the blink. Wait for it.”

I waited for a blink each day to see a glimpse of what Mom was. Memory issues are a slow slow grieving process. I don’t think it will make the finality of death any easier. I kid myself that I can still talk to her. Death will stop that.  

On Sunday evening as she began her final journey she said to Amy and I, “Did you see me drifting by?”

Without waiting for our reply, she said “No? Well don’t blink your eyes!”

I will think of Mom with every sunset I watch, waiting for the blink. 

Mom took her last breath here on earth today. 

Be joyful, be funny, be you Mom. 

What a graceful beautiful ending.

There's not a lot of sunsets in the winter in the Pacific Northwest. Cloudy, rain, overcast. With a delivery of a beautiful homemade cake this weekend, I realized Mom has been reaching out to me, making sure I'm okay. Mom loved taking care of her family, and she showed her love through food. Born in 1940, Mom delivered staples like stew, soup, pot roast, roasted vegetables, as well as pies, cookies, cakes. Her pie crusts were flaky, and delicious. Apple crisps, berry cobblers and brownies fill my memories of afterschool treats. 

The 1st time Mom nudged me? My school friend Jennifer stopped by for a walk through the neighborhood after Christmas. I think I talked the whole time, obviously needing to say out loud what Amy and I experienced in the last days of Mom's journey. Jen gave me a box of Christmas cookies. After she left, I opened the box to find all the cookies Mom used to make. The love my friend put into the goodies, the love she had for me to reach out and make sure I was okay. I felt nurtured, cared for, and loved. 

The 2nd time was with a delivery around 10pm from a working Mom who had just finished making cakes and texted me to see if I was still up. Yes, sure swing by. A lovely card of sympathy and two warm homemade cakes. 

On Friday night, I see a card on the counter. No name on it. I asked Reyde and James what it was. Reyde said, "Mom open the microwave, that goes with the card:

Our neighbors sent the card and the cake across the street. So kind. A homemade cake, a few sprinkles to make it brighter, drizzled with a lemon glaze. In the text exchange, I realized that Mom was reaching out to me again:

You and Karen are the best neighbors.  Thank you for the card and cake.  Mom showed her love through food. As kids, my sister and I would come home from school and Mom would have the house smelling of cookies or brownies. Christmas was all about the baked goods. Your cake made me feel loved. That little girl in my heart was brought forward last night. Thank you. I needed to remember that feeling associated with my Mom. 

 Well that is my moms favorite cake. I mixed it in my moms bowl and used my moms hand written recipe. So you must of felt the mommy love which was the point🥰your mom was such a cutie she had a lot of me in her😆my ❤️shares in your loss.    You guys are soooo welcome and we too are blessed to have neighbors looking out for us like you guys. Happy spring few..... we almost made it. 

 Yes. I absolutely felt all that Mom love. You are something else Julia! The spirit world and connection in the space between is so real. 

A lot of who I am is because of my Mom. The days will be hard, the tears will flow and I will cry them, be sad and move forward. And as I enjoy the sunsets, enjoy homebaked goods, and watch for other ways Mom is making sure I'm okay, I'm reminded that she is and will always be with me. 

"I'm still here Sweetheart," love, Mom.

 

Becoming a Better Salesperson, Teachings from Amanda Gorman 

As I reflect back on Wednesday’s inauguration ceremony I sit in awe of our Youth Poet Laureate, Amanda Gorman. At first the creative in me soaked up every word used, her cadence in delivery, the hero’s journey she took us on, and the hope and inspiration she left us with as she exited the stage. I took it all in, my heart full of love for my country, our people, and our will to contribute to a better world.

Let’s watch the recital one more time:

Watch CBSN Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman recites poem at Joe Biden's inauguration

Incredible right? Politics aside, absorb the performance for what it is. Who expected that? This young woman held our attention for 5 of the 60-minute inauguration. I’m smiling and getting chills as I write these sentences.

As I reflect a few days later, I also see how much I can learn, and our team can learn from this young woman on the world stage. How do her performance and poem correlate to sales, sales training, business?

 

1.     Recalibrate. At the beginning of her performance, Amanda steps up to the podium, takes her time to open her binder, breathes, looks up, pauses and then begins. There are no filler words, there is confidence in the quiet of the stage before she starts. As you begin your next meeting internally or with clients, pause, prepare, and then begin.

2.     Preparation. We don’t know how long it took to write the poem. How many drafts and re-writes occurred. I’d like to think that it was written well before January 6^th, and after the events of that day, Ms. Gorman modified the poem to incorporate the recent history of our democracy. How often do you plan and prepare for your next call or meeting? Do you write down your talking points and understand what the intention of the time spent with the client is? What is success? What do you want to achieve?

3.     Practice. How many times do you think she practiced before Wednesday morning? How many times did she film herself to listen to her own voice and critique her cadence, her choice of hand gestures, the sweep of looking out at the crowd? Think back to your last big meeting, or your next meeting coming up? Is it the “biggest deal ever?” What have you done to practice for your biggest play of the year or an important topic that you want to influence the outcome in your favor? Practice practice practice. Record yourself. Video conferencing is critical in our WFH business conditions.

4.     Bring your notes! Ms. Gorman’s confidence to bring her binder, consistently refer back to it, while commanding the stage is excellent. If you don’t have your notes/call plan/meeting agenda with you, you are likely to forget a topic or have the call go in a different direction. In this same vein, take notes. As you listen to your client, and you hear key information, finish listening and when there is a break in the conversation, ask for a moment to write down the note. Your client will appreciate that you are taking notes, and actively listening. You can’t listen and write at the same time. The silence in the meeting is fine and acceptable. No filler words needed!

5.     Appearance. Ms. Gorman is vibrant in her color choice of a yellow coat, and her red hairband. The barely present yellow eye shadow glowed in the sunshine and against her clothing. Do you think about your clothing during these times? What does your clothing say to your clients when you are video conferencing? Is your camera angle good? Does video image convey what you want it to convey as you try to close the deal? Use colors in your favor. Use lighting to your advantage. Be professional.

6.     Be vulnerable, be brave. Ms. Gorman shares in the poem her background. People buy from people. Create business relationships that become friendships. It’s not all business, and certainly, during these WFH pandemic conditions, we all can benefit from being authentic, and sharing insight into who we are.

7.     Know your audience. Ms. Gorman’s poem reaches out and speaks to all walks of life. She acknowledges all and requests a call to action for us to unite despite our differences.  Knowing your audience in sales is critical. The 4 personality styles we train with at AMMEX are from Jack Daly’s Hyper Sales Growth:

 

I aspire to incorporate all personality styles like she did in my next meetings. I am an analytical more than an expressive. I can do better with my storytelling to reach the expressive. I know I have lost sales because I didn’t speak in the way the buyer hears. And in the same vein, I need to be patient with the amiables around me! 

    8. Hero’s Journey. Listen to her poem one more time. The title in itself is a                hero’s journey, The Hill We Climb.The hero’s journey is a common template         of stories dating back to the 1800s. If you think about your favorite movie 

        or book, you’ll likely find the framework in the story.

Wikipedia, Hero's Journey

 

 

My favorite thought leader at this time is Brene’ Brown. As I listened to her podcast this weekend, the hero’s journey came up again. I heard the journey in Ms. Gorman’s performance both in her poem, and her own journey to the world stage.  And then I had an aha moment. In sales and in business, our customers want to be the hero; we want our product to be the hero. I will incorporate storytelling and invoking the hero’s journey as I lead our team to reach our goals in 2021. 

   9. Game filming. Is there anything Ms. Gorman could have done differently? Do       you game film your meetings and presentations? Be reflective, be critical of          your behavior. We get better when we practice and when we open ourselves          to feedback. Get your feedback loop going!

     The only thing I could possibly give as feedback on Ms. Gorman’s performance is at the very end. The camera angle showed President Biden moving towards her to speak to her. It looks like he wanted to congratulate her and she exited swiftly, not acknowledging him. A pause here, accepting the accolades of our new president would have been great. I’d like to think that this slight misstep was due to the tightly scripted timing of the inauguration schedule. And she may have been just full of adrenaline and wanted to get off the stage. And truly, there is absolutely nothing critical of her performance. I do not begin to judge.

So as I conclude my writing on the influence of Amanda Gorman in business, I leave you with the first and last sentences of her poem:

…When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? 

…For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.

 

 

A Little “Woo Woo”

 

September 5^th would have been Dad’s 88^th birthday this year.  He admired and read a lot about Chinese and Japanese culture. As the date got nearer in August, I thought to myself, 88, a number symbolizing good fortune in Chinese culture. This would have been Dad’s lucky year.

 

Putting in some long hours to finish out August sales and prepare for September allocations, I turned off my computer and settled into bed late on Sunday, August 30^th.  As I fell asleep, Dad was on my mind as the end of summer always meant a birthday dinner and the Labor Day weekend with him.

 

It wasn’t long before I was awakened by the strangest sensation. Grief and sadness overcame me and I was crying in my sleep. But that’s not what woke me up. It was the sensation of liquid in my ears. Tears dropping and splashing in the pool of tears in my ears. My head was perfectly positioned to catch the falling tears.

 

As I came to and realized that I was crying, sadness overcame me. Gulping ugly cry. Trying my best to be very quiet about this to not awaken James, I got myself under control. Missing Dad, wondering if he has been watching how hard I have been working, I questioned, “would he be proud of me?” Yes, coming up on 52 years on this beautiful earth, I still yearn for my Dad’s acceptance and pride.

 

Now, this is where it gets a little “woo woo.”

 

I believe in spirits and that I have a few that hang out with me. After Dad’s passing in 2010, I would smell cigarette smoke in a room, or my car, or in the office. Not often, but noticed. And I’d look around to see if someone had come in that had been smoking. If it were outside, I’d look for a passerby smoking, or a car with the window rolled down. The smell would waft by and dissipate. I decided this was Dad making an appearance and letting me know he has my back.

 

When I awoke crying, I didn’t smell cigarette smoke. Being introspective, I wanted to keep the moment between me and him, even though there was no fragrance. I didn’t share what happened with anyone.

 

In the days that followed, I smelled cigarette smoke a couple times in the backyard. I thought it was the neighbor based on where I am working in the shed during the day.

 

I’ve told James and I think I’ve told Reyde about my “smoking spirit.” I don’t really know what they believe. And really, it is a little or a lot “woo woo”. It must have been a few weeks later, I was working away in the shed and Reyde pops in and asked me if I smelled smoke. I said no not right now, but I think it’s the neighbor. No, he says, Dad smelled it in the trailer and so he wanted to know if you smell it now.

 

Nope. So now I wonder if Dad is hanging out with the family? I don’t think about this further and go back to work. From time to time I recall the sensation of tears splashing into the pools of liquid in my ears. In the back of my mind, I am trying to figure out why the emotion hit so very hard after a long day and night at work.

 

I’ve been very fortunate to participate in a business leadership program that emphasizes long term personal development, accountability, and understanding what your higher purpose is. Through the course, we spent many hours learning about the way people speak and how you think you are communicating clearly but the message is not heard. Language, how you phrase things, tone of voice, intention, it all matters in communication.

 

Because of this gift of learning, I continued to ponder on the question that came to mind when I awoke that night. Dad hanging out for a few weeks made me think that I needed to figure out what all this meant.

 

It’s funny. In high school, I thought I’d go to college and get a language degree and then work as a translator. Spanish was the language I took and I thought I could really do something with that. Didn’t work out. But what I do realize is that I am a translator. I just translate English to English. Being blessed to have identified my higher purpose and be able to embrace it and live it, I see the correlation with translating again.  I help others discover their voices and develop the courage to open their hearts. I help people connect their feelings, verbalize their feelings so that they can understand how to better advocate for themselves. Or simply give themselves grace during our incredibly difficult year that 2020 has shaped up to be.

 

Wording, phrasing, language, it all matters. I finally figured out why the emotion hit so very hard. Dad didn’t want me to question anymore. The flood of emotion hit because he was telling me he is proud of me. Of who I have become. Of how I continue learning just like he did.

 

Wendy, don’t question, “would I be proud of you?” Reframe that into a statement, “Wendy I am proud of you.” I have to admit that when I figured this out when I told myself the statement, instead of the question, I know that’s why he stuck around.

 

Thanks, Dad. I surely needed your message.

I Miss You

(Author's note. My post is my perspective of a very personal matter. A friendship of many years summarized with a few stories. This is a clip of a life much more colorful, whole, meaningful and full of love than I can ever do justice.)

I saw her heart break and totally shatter on a street corner in Vegas. She told me I didn’t need to walk her to the restaurant but I didn’t trust the situation.  I followed her, a fair distance back so she didn’t know I was there. I was afraid for her, not that she was in physical danger, I was afraid she’d find out that this guy didn’t love her. He’d taken advantage of one of the best and it could be the last time I’d see her whole.

When the yelling got loud, and people were staring, I walked across the street and pulled her away. Devastated, she was broken. We had a plane to catch the next morning, and I didn’t want to leave her alone. I suggested we stay in the same room, but she wouldn’t do it. I didn’t sleep that night and I know she didn’t either. In the morning she met me in the lobby and so began the shutdown that would last for months. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. I only saw the shell that was.

Alone. Longing for belonging, searching for connection. Music was her soul, her place of peace, her medicine.

I am haunted by my memories fading. Was Blink 182’s “I Miss You” the song that she found solace in when thinking about a special person that took his life? Her emotions so raw when the anniversary of his death would come and go. They had made a deal to stick it out together and he didn’t keep the promise. She didn’t tell me too many details, it was still too painful. Was this song the one she played in his memory? Am I making that up? Did I put that together and really it wasn’t her song? Perhaps the song is my memory for her. The irony and sadness, the tone of voice in the vocals, the rhythmic bass, the constant guitar that reminded her of him, and me so much of her? I’ll never know.

I Miss You

Blink-182

(I miss you miss you)

Hello there the angel from my nightmare
The shadow in the background of the morgue
The unsuspecting victim of darkness in the valley
We can live like Jack and Sally if we want
Where you can always find me
And we'll have Halloween on Christmas
And in the night we'll wish this never ends
We'll wish this never ends

(I miss you I miss you)
(I miss you I miss you)

Where are you and I'm so sorry
I cannot sleep I cannot dream tonight
I need somebody and always
This sick strange darkness
Comes creeping on so haunting every time
And as I stared I counted
The Webs from all the spiders
Catching things and eating their insides
Like indecision to call you
and hear your voice of treason
Will you come home and stop the pain tonight
Stop this pain tonight

Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)

Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)
Don't waste your time on me you're already
The voice inside my head (I miss you miss you)

I miss you (miss you miss you)
(I miss you miss you)

Songwriters: DWIGHT MEYERS, TERRI E. ROBINSON

© Warner Chappell Music, Inc., Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group, Songtrust Ave, BMG Rights Management, Royalty Network

I was afraid that she’d stop the pain one night. Yes, I was afraid. Sometimes, not always. I’d reach out via text, email, and talking. Always trying to find the balance of showing my concern and love for this beautiful soul while not pushing too hard to where she would shut down. Fighting my own demons and hellish depression throughout the years I knew that we humans are capable of faking it. Faking it that everything is okay while being torn up and so sad behind the smile. I wanted to trust that she was doing okay. I wanted her smile to be authentic.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she healed herself. I began to have hope that my friend would see herself the way we saw her: intelligent, extremely passionate, loyal, fierce, determined, lovely, and beautiful.

Her laugh returned.

It was a standard medical procedure. Shouldn’t be a problem. I was headed out of town for a couple weeks. Remembering her post on social media about hugs and how people need hugs, I made a point to go over and hug her before I left the office that night. I commented that she was going to be just fine, but let me give you a hug anyway. Let’s be clear here. We don’t hug at work, and even in the depths of her heartbreak, she wouldn’t let me put an arm around her on that Vegas street corner. She stood up from her chair and I wrapped my arms around her. Not a quick hug, I held the embrace longer than she expected. I hoped to convey my need for her, my love for her, and that she was enough. When it got to that awkward point, I released my arms, asked her to text me and that I’d keep in touch once I landed.

A few texts back and forth.  She was in pain and thought it shouldn’t be that way. No, it shouldn’t, make sure to check in with your doctor I texted. She didn’t come back to work as scheduled and that told me she wasn’t physically feeling good. She was with her parents and they were there for her. But something went wrong with the standard, simple procedure.

I was overseas. I thought about calling. I texted instead. I should have called.

...Like indecision to call you...

Her laugh is gone. Silent.

You spend so much time with the people you work with. Little did I understand what a friendship we had. My first friend that I’ve had to say goodbye to as an adult. Facebook memories cut me to the core as I see the photos of all the travel we did together year after year in July and August. I unfriended her as it was so hard to look back on her profile. And just like her, I can’t get that back and wish I could. Is her family managing the account? What would they think if I reached out to get a little bit back of my friendship if only by social media connection? 

I grieve and cry from time to time. When I listen to her music, and specifically Blink 182’s I Miss You, the insistent beat, relentlessly marching to the end of the song is the cadence of life. It is a direct synonym for life not stopping for those left behind. The rhythm and lyrics bring me to tears.

Many a day, I’d retreat to my car, start the engine, queue up the song and turn the volume up loud. I’d drive, cry, yell, and feel.

The tempo of life goes on. The frequency of exiting out of the office, hurriedly so people don’t see the tears in my eyes, or rolling down my face is less and less.

And still.

I miss her.

Tea and Toast

I absolutely love the singing shows on TV. There was a time a few years ago that I searched "The Voice and X Factor + a country name" to get lost in the magic of hearing and watching people live their dreams of making it big. 

I often wonder what became of one of those singers from the UK, Lucy Spraggan. Her song, Tea and Toast, hit me to the core. Probably because it was around the time that Dad passed away and he used food to make me feel better. "Come on Wendy, let's go get some ice cream....some cookies..." and off we'd go to make me feel a little less lonely. Teenage angst in the mid 80's. John Hughes nailed it with his movies!

Have a listen, Lucy's song is special:
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egBlPQpo6H4

Flash forward to June 2019. We lost our lovely English Chocolate Lab Coco. We were devastated and sad for so long. I wrote on FaceBook:

Oh Coco. You have loved us unconditionally since the day we brought you home. Your unwavering concern and protection of your humans is like no other dog we've had. You graciously helped Nitro and Rufus cross over the rainbow bridge and grieved with us. You've been our emotional girl. Continue your watch from above. We are in the capable paws of Keisel. Know that you are taking a piece of our hearts with you. 

Our beautiful girl, Coco

James and I had been out of town and got the call that Coco wasn't able to walk. We took an earlier flight home, and spent the day with our girl, loving her, brushing her, comforting her. And helping her cross over the rainbow bridge. I still feel the softness of her fur, right under her ear, behind her jaw. Her extra folds of skin and fur so soft, warm, like the fuzziest blanket you ever could imagine. Sitting on the floor of the vet's office, we had our hands on her for a really long time. I wanted that moment imprinted on me and her; for her not to be afraid as she took her last breath.

We came home, cried an awful lot more and noticed the missing sounds of Coco. Deep breathing as I write this, oh how we miss her still. 

But you know what I did that evening? I remembered Lucy's song. James hadn't eaten in over a day. I made him some tea and toast. And we began living after Coco. 

Yes, tea and toast. 

Christmas Traditions

Nothing says Christmas like a tangled up knot of metal ornament hangers in a Cheez Whiz jar.

To me.

It's funny the childhood memories that transition into adulthood. I vividly remember the hunt for the jar every year. Amy and I would dive into the boxes of Christmas decorations, in search of the Cheez Whiz jar. We couldn't hang ornaments until we found that magical jar of angst. Mom would unscrew the lid, and lay it on the coffee table. Pulling the nest of hangers out, she'd tap the knot on the lid, loosening a few hangers at a time. Rather than leaving the hot mess of hangers out to scratch the table, Mom gently forced the knot back into the jar. Amy and I would hang bobbles until we ran out of hooks, and Mom would stop what she was doing to get us more hangers. I don't know how Mom had the patience to pull the hangers out and tap tap tap, returning it to the jar. Perhaps it was all part of the ritual.

We never used all of the hangers, but it was important to not run out, thereby insuring the tangled assortment would avail itself to the Nelson family year after year.

Fast forward to 1988 and my first year living away from home. My roommate Jennifer and I cobbled together furniture and money to rent an apartment. Coincidently, my hand me down furniture matched her hand me down furniture and although dated with the 1970s burnt orange and wagon wheel pattern, the living room looked good.

We pieced together Christmas decorations and laughed about how it looked like "adults live here." I don't remember how we got the tree home from the store and into the appartment as we both drove Chevy Chevettes. Looking through the boxes, we realized we needed hangers. And I said, we need a Cheez Whiz jar too. She asked why and I said to keep the ornament hooks in. Didn't all families do that? She said no, but was willing to eat the yummy spread on crackers to empty the jar.

Fast forward to 2013. Yes, it's the same jar. 25 years of peaceful existance, containing tangled chaos. I don't think our use of the Cheez Whiz jar will ever amount to a significant viral internet story, or a Cheez Whiz ad. But it resonates within my heart, the spirit of Christmas, of spending time with my Mom, Dad, and Amy. Of listening to the Chipmunks sing Christmas Songs, (Alvin!!,) watching  A Charlie Brown Christmas, watching Mom douse her fruit cake with rum, and  listen to her mysteriously work behind the closed door of her sewing room late into the nights.

Merry Christmas To All, and To All A Cheez Whiz Night.

Family Noises

Grief hits me in the oddest ways. Our schedule has settled down a bit; my work travel is done for the calendar year and Saturday soccer games find us staying around home.

Being home each weekend, I find myself feeling like something is missing. That life is not complete and I should be doing something else.

Last year this time, we were still in our “honeymoon” phase. Still getting used to a routine, what he liked, how he wanted his coffee made, what time he liked to get up. Sounds like a new marriage right? But no, I was learning how to be his roommate.

And then his health worsened. And we had hospital visits and nursing homes stays. The second to last time Uncle Bob resided at Stafford Healthcare, I visited every couple days. He was on a rigid physical therapy and dialysis schedule that left him pretty darned tired and not inhis room at night.

I stopped in one evening as his departure neared just to visit, coordinate times, and check in on him. As I was getting ready to head home, he said with so much earnest and gratitude in his voice, “Wendy thanks for coming by and visiting.”

“Well you’re welcome Uncle Bob. I’m just stressing out over your homecoming in a wheelchair, getting a little amped up by it all and didn’t want you to feel bad. I just want to make sure we can take care of you. “

“It will all work out, don’t worry.”

“Hmmm.”

“You know, I really appreciate you coming by. They leave me to be pretty much, and once dinner is done and medicine, it’s pretty quiet.”

“Yeah, I bet it is.” We watched TV for awhile; I played on my smart phone. He didn’t need conversation, just being together was good. Looking at the time, I said “I should probably get going; got to get Reyde into bed.”

Not skipping a beat, he kept on his train of thought. “I kinda miss my family noises.”

“Your family noises?”

“Yeah. I know I’ve been spending a lot of time in my room, and not eating dinner with you, James and Reyde. But I know you are out there. I hear you talking, Nitro barking, Reyde playing. And one by one, all of you eventually check in on me through the evening.”

I laughed, because yes, we all did in our own way. Nitro checked his garbage basket multiple times to see if there was a snack to be had. Reyde would show him a Lego creation, and brush his teeth watching TV with Uncle Bob. James checked in every afternoon when he came home from work, and would say good night as he headed to bed. The first thing I did after work was visit with him, then get dinner going, and bring him his meal. After dinner we’d chat a few minutes about medical stuff that had happened that day or what was planned for the next day. Every Thursday was “pills and bills” day, writing checks and dispensing pills for the next week. His air was definitely interrupted from 4pm until 10pm nightly.

And so as the winter approaches and we come and go, I realize that I am dearly missing my Uncle being home, the house being warm and lights on. I miss the rigid schedule of pills and meals that kept us tied to the house. I miss the closeness of having Uncle Bob with us and adding more family to our family.

I miss the steady rumble of the oxygen concentrator, the country music playing every morning as I got ready for work, the NCIS dialogue drifting down the hallway in the evenings, his cowboy ringtone as his cell phone rang, the way he’d say, “Well Hello.” And each morning as I’d bring him his coffee, he’d say with gusto, “Coffee!”

Uncle Bob, I miss your family noises.

Pumeggnogging Pie

It's a rare, rare day that I bake. A couple weeks ago, wanting to free up space in my freezer, I decided to use the pumpkin puree that Mom had so kindly made from scratch a few years back.
 
We'd been home all day, I didn't want to go out in the rain and decided to experiment. I totally feel comfortable doing this in cooking, but baking is so foreign to me. Using two lifelines, allrecipes.com and calls to Mom, my pumpkin eggnog pudding concoction turned out pretty darned good.

The next time I make this, I'll cut the recipe in half and use a shorter pan. This one is about 3" deep and the very middle didn't set as well as I'd envisioned.
 
Enjoy!
 

 

Divide as needed for smaller portions

This is what I used for my experiment.

8 cups pumpkin puree
4 eggs
½ cup flour
1 ½ cup sugar
1 tsp salt
4 cups egg nog
2 ½ tsp pumpkin pie spice
2 tsp baking powder

Oil and flour pan with coconut oil for added flavor.

Mix all ingredients cold, whipping eggs first before adding to mixture. Heat on stove for 10 minutes or so. Pour mixture into pan, cover with foil and bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes. (Watch the time, using a shorter pan it will take less time I think.)

3 cups Bisquick
1 cup eggnog

In a separate bowl, mix Bisquick and eggnog.

Remove pan from oven, drop biscuits throughout the pan. Return to oven and bake another 10 minutes or until biscuits are done.

Serve with whip cream if you like.

"Din Din"

It's not like he was a bad father. But there was a disconnect that Amy and I could never mend. Had little to do with us, and more to do with his parents.

But we could always count on a meal bridging the gap. Dad loved to eat. Food delivered pure enjoyment to his being. Mealtimes brought us together, and sharing a favorite food connected us to him.

At the height of my troubled teenage years, when Amy was out every weekend with friends, or her boyfriend, or both, Dad knew I was upset and sad wondering why I didn't have friends and a boyfriend like her. I look back now and realize that he couldn't talk about my feelings or help me with feelings because of his upbringing. But what he could try to do was bring happiness to me by saying, "Let's go get some din din."

Because food brought joy to him, and therefore, food could make his youngest happy. It would fill the pit left by teenage self doubt.

Funny how grief hits. Been almost three years since Dad passed. For the last few months, as we sit down to eat, I hear my Dad say, "It's din din time." Or when we go out for dinner, I recall how he'd walk through the kitchen door, calling up to Amy and I, "Let's go get some din din!"

All his gruffness, and grumpiness, and lecturing, and hard to talk to on the phone, and crankiness are memories pushed back as I remember the things that brought Dad happiness. A respite for a brief moment, but peace nonetheless.

Dad, I've been missing you a lot lately. I know you're having some din din. Have some for me too.

The Last Thursday

I spent with my uncle.

Mom called in the afternoon. Said that he wasn’t good enough to go to dialysis and that the staff needed to speak with me to cancel the transportation and appointment. Her phone was passed to the nurse and then handed back. I heard the tears in her voice.

Mom, I’ll be right up. She said okay and hung up the phone.

I needed to see for myself that Uncle Bob wasn’t up to going to dialysis. Because this was a big decision I was making for him. The day before he was lucid and talking. He trusted me to make decisions if we ever got to this point.

And I needed to be there for Mom. I heard it in her voice. This wasn’t her situation to bear alone.

Walking into his room, Uncle Bob was sleeping. I go over and hug Mom and tell her that it’s going to be okay. Donning a mask and gloves, I lean down and talk to Uncle Bob. His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t awaken.

The nurse comes in and administers a breathing treatment. He still doesn’t wake up. Mom and I sit and watch him, the vapors of the medicine escaping from the mask. I stand after a bit and tap it to get all the medicine used. Condensation drips down. Soon it is completed and I gently remove the straps from his head. His glasses are pressing into his cheeks and I tell him that I am taking them off.

Sitting back down, I look at the clock. I’ve been there for 20 minutes and no change. Mom, I’m going to sit here for a while and see if he wakes up.

Okay.

Pulling my phone out, I began texting family; how Mom said he wasn’t well enough to go and I agreed. Stepping outside into the hallway, I called James; told him that Uncle Bob declined and that I wouldn’t be home after work. Do what you need to do Wendy. Thanks honey. I breathed deep, wiped my eyes and swallowed.

Walking back into the room, my Mom is watching over her brother. She is sad and upset and knowing that this is a big change.

Mom, does your church up here have someone that can come visit? Seeing her in such pain, I wanted her to be comforted as well as have some spiritual words spoken in Uncle Bob’s room. She said yes, I got the number and called. Someone would come over.

After an hour and a half, I couldn’t get Uncle Bob to wake up. Mom said she wasn’t going home; she’d stay until she needed to. I’ll go back to work then and get some things in order in case I am not in on Friday.

En route back to the office, Uncle Bob’s nurse practitioner called. Medicines, options, dialysis was discussed. We made a plan. And when Uncle Bob woke up, we’d talk to him as everything was still his decision.

I called Uncle Don and told him what was going on; asked him to stop by on his way home.

A few hours later, I arrived back at the skilled nursing facility. Mom, Don, Carol, and Sandy sat around Uncle Bob’s bed. No change, he was still sleeping and not very responsive. Uncle Don left and said he’d be back the next night.

I headed out to get dinner. Figured we’d be in for a long night. Upon my return, I see another person sitting by Uncle Bob’s bed. It’s the lady from the church. I placed dinner on the counter and joined the ladies. Quietly reading her spiritual words, Mom is comforted; Sandy, Carol and I respectfully listened. Soon we are sharing stories about Uncle Bob, explaining to the church lady what an amazing man he is, what a fantastic sense of humor he has, and how he accepted with such dignity and finesse the significant health issues in the last months.

I don’t know how much time passed. There were lulls in the conversation; 5 of us staring at him and wondering if we’d talk to him again.

Dinner was getting cold; I invited the church lady to join us. No thanks, I’ll be heading out. More small talk ensued, and I waited. Sandy said something, and I looked over the bed at her.

Uncle Bob opened his eyes, very alert. He stared at Carol sitting at the end of the bed. We all leaned in, waiting to see if he’d talk. Looking over at Sandy, he said, what? Are you waiting for the old fart to die?

Laughter erupted, Uncle Bob chuckled and we saw that sparkle in his eye.

I sat back and wondered, is that going to be his last words on this earth? They weren’t. We got a few more minutes with him before he went back to sleep.

Carol left, I cleaned up the containers from dinner, and Sandy said her goodbyes.
See you tomorrow she said.

Moving the chairs away from Uncle Bob’s bed, I sat down next to Mom and put my arm around her. You better now I asked? Yes, I am better; it was good to have her (the church lady) here. We sat quietly watching him sleep, peaceful and without pain.

You know James stopped by today.

He did? I called him and told him what was going on this afternoon.

Wendy, he is such a sweet man. He walked in and gave me a big hug. I cried and he cried.

And then I cried. And Mom cried.

Getting up, I held Uncle Bob’s hand and told him that I loved him and I’d be back in the morning. Mom said good night and that she’s going home to get some rest. And that she’d see him tomorrow.

Walking down the hallway, we say thank you to the staff for taking care of him. Mom was weary, and I prayed that Uncle Bob would understand our selfishness.

We wanted another day. We needed another day. We weren’t ready to say goodbye.

Can I interest you in dessert?

It is a tough economy out there these days. That’s what the news tells us, and therefore it is true, right? Higher level economic indicators are discussed by news commentators and the politician of the hour expounds on the virtue of his greatness to overcome the sluggish market. I think I can confidently say, most Americans are simply tired of hearing about who to blame, why it happened, and how someone can magically take us back to the 90’s and the era of super big growth on Wall Street and outlandish personal spending.

From time to time I choose to spend time and money to have manicures and pedicures. It’s a luxury. My nails are strong enough to grow them out and have them long and look nice. So why do I do it? Because I like the fact that the polish stays on for two weeks without flaking and peeling. And I like the look of artificial nails with a French manicure. As to pedicures, who doesn’t like someone else trimming your nails, cleaning your cuticles and paying attention to your feet? It’s an extravagance that is easily chopped out of our budget.

I have been to quite a few different places to have fills this summer. The first set was put on in New Jersey; I didn’t get a get chance to get them done prior to business travel. Had some time in the evening and stopped by a new place, touting a Grand Opening special. As I walked in I observed the cleanliness and thought, yes, I’ll have my nails done here. The owner suggested a young guy put my set on and they both proceeded to upsell me on a set of gel nails instead of acrylic. Value add came in the form of a bottle of water. The final value add came in the highly self regarded opinion of the technician of the beauty of square finished nails instead of round tips. I thought to myself, “might as well do as the locals do, I’m at the New Jersey shore.”

After Jersey, I had a fill in Kent. The owner of the nail salon in Kent looked at my nails and spoke in length to the technician in Vietnamese. I said I’d like a gel fill since that’s what I have on. He said it is better to fill with acrylic. No upsell in this salon, and in fact, it was such a poor fill that I haven’t been back.

The next experience happened in Vegas. Again, business travel and I couldn’t get to my favorite place, Lovely Nail prior to leaving. Lovely Nail not Nails? Yes, if you question that, so do I and most patrons of the salon. Lost in translation and each time I leave here all of my nails (plural) are lovely.

Anyway, back to Vegas. I figured I could pay top dollar on the strip or go off and get affordable nails. But then there is the taxi fare. So I went ahead and had them done at the casino. Unusual for sure, but I had a Caucasian technician. It was a lovely visit with clear understanding and no difficulty in conversation. Of course, she looked at my gel set with acrylic fill and went on about how so many of the Asian salons really don’t know what they are doing. No upsells at this event. I was paying top dollar anyway. Have to admit, the polish and sheen of the color I chose was absolutely fabulous. I had so many compliments on the color and how nice they looked. This particular fill was COMPLETELY luxurious; I am embarrassed to say out loud how much I really spent when so many people don’t have money to meet all of their bills every month.

In between Vegas and now, I hit Lovely Nail a couple times. And then two weeks ago, I decided to get my “Groupon” (can I use that as a verb?) Anyway, I’ve had this Groupon coupon for almost a year. And with my nail season winding down, I figured I best use it before it expires. I phoned to make an appointment on Sunday afternoon and asked about costs to make sure I’d be using the entire coupon. Yikes, a spa pedicure and a fill will more than certainly use my $50. Glad I only spent $25 for the coupon.

As I walked into the salon, I noticed the fine atmosphere, soft music, nicely decorated, and clean. The gal behind the counter called for a technician to escort me to the pedicure area. 95 minutes later, my pedicure was complete. I planned for an hour and a half tops for both services.

Being a Sunday afternoon, and Uncle Bob asking if I ever get “Wendy time,” I held back my anxiousness to move on to the next thing on my list. The gal behind the front counter said to follow her and she’d fill my nails.

I asked for an acrylic fill, that I didn’t want to have another material since I had some lifting with the gel and acrylic mix. Sitting down at the station, she takes my hands and studies my nails. And then proceeded to tell me the features and benefits of silk wraps. She has developed her own wrap process and it is the best for your nails, only to have natural 100% Chinese silk on them. On and on. Okay, since this is a coupon, I’ll go ahead and give them a try. With that, she begins to file and prepare to wrap my nails in silk. Having heard about this type of fake nail before, I am curious.

Soon I learn that the front desk gal is actually the owner of the salon. She tells me of her other shop in Covington that she recently sold and how she has 3 children, two of which are going to school at WSU. Go Cougs. She stops from time to time to reply to texts from her daughter who is driving back to Pullman that day. I think to myself, she’s done well for herself, emigrating from Vietnam, owning successful businesses, and raising three children and having two of them in college. No small feat.

The wrapping takes quite a bit of time, and we discuss a variety of topics. Pauline, the owner, asks where I typically go as I have my Groupon coupon. She knows of Lovely Nail, and doesn’t speak poorly of them. Her sales tactic is on the up and up, Pauline promotes her salon with best business practices, clean facilities, how the Groupon deal has brought a lot of business her way. “I use it as a loss leader. I’ve offered the Groupon twice. Don’t know if I’ll do it again, but I did sell a lot of them.”
I commend her for drumming up business, and keeping her clientele growing. With the economy the way it is, I comment that I’m sure she’s see a downturn in her business. It’s hard to spend money on your nails when you have bills to pay.

Pauline stops wrapping and says, “Wendy, you have no idea how many people come in here and pay for nails when they can’t feed their families. Yes, it is rough with lots of people with no jobs, but ladies are not willing to sacrifice this bit of beauty.”

Smart businesswoman I think to myself. She is running this place to make money and understands a lot about sales from technique, product offering and her client base. It was nice to have this type of business conversation, surprisingly at a salon. I hadn’t had a higher level conversation like this at any other salon. Not that I couldn’t inquire and ask, but Pauline offered up this information.

So as Pauline grabs the spool of Chinese silk out of her drawer, she begins to tell me about other services they offer. Massage and waxing services. Nice.

“Wendy, do you wax?”

“Yes, I get my eyebrows done.”

“Oh, well what about other waxings; like a bikini wax or a Brazilian?”

This takes me back. Umm, awkward. I don’t know this woman and she’s asking me about that? Not wanting to appear uncouth, I decide to roll with the conversation and tell her no, no I don’t do those waxings. Besides, that whole Brazilian thing is so personal.

“I wouldn’t worry about that. We don’t even look at it that way. And a lot of women really like it.”

“Hmm.”

“You should try it.”

“Yes, well maybe I will.”

Pauling goes into the details of her services and I get a little glassy eyed. I don’t want to think about that on a Sunday afternoon! The conversation segues into other topics and my attention span officially wanes. Two and ½ hours into my “Wendy time,” I am seriously considering why I have my nails done. This is 2 ½ hours I won’t get back, and was it the best use of my time on this earth? I cut my event short; let her know that I don’t have time for polish and head out the door.

“Come on back when you have time, I’ll put some color on your nails. And think about making an appointment for waxing; you won’t be disappointed. “

Driving away from the salon, I am agitated by the delay in my schedule but also impressed by the sales techniques employed by a persistent small business owner in America. We all know that restaurants try to upsell appetizers and desserts to increase revenue dollars per ticket. The upsells and add-ons in other salons are typically for French manicures, eyebrow waxings, and paraffin treatments. But this gal, she went for it. You never know unless you ask for the order right? That’s what closing business is all about in sales. I’m curious about her close rate.

Will she close this sale with me? I honestly don’t know. But should I choose to have that service performed, I’ll likely return to her salon. Pauline deserves the sale.

P.S. As most of you know, my sissy la la is my sounding board. I told her about the waxing conversation prior to writing and we laughed and giggled. Sharing my title with her I said I still had to work the title into the story to you know, complete the circle. Otherwise the title wouldn’t make any sense. She texted back something I so wouldn’t expect. So then here I am explaining that it’s all about the upsell and more revenue and dessert that way. Love her. And totally think she’s gotta get her fiction writing groove on.

Speechless

Left speechless at the dinner table tonight. Not from praise of the FINE stew I made.

From Reyde asserting himself. Looking at Uncle Bob and he says, "just so you know I wasn't talking to you."

Uhhh. WHAT? His delivery was impeccable, and I had to really hold it together to be stern without laughing at how funny it was. So I reprimanded, James chewed on him, and Uncle Bob didn't realize what was happening it occurred so quickly.

Love parenting.

You wanna talk to my....

Uncle Bob kibbitzed with Mom for a long time on the phone tonight.

I sat down at the table with him, patiently waiting for him to wrap up the conversation so I could show him soccer photos.

Dah duh duh....da duh duh....waiting. Zoning. Pretty tired. And then I hear him say, "Do you want to talk to my lawyer?"

What? Mom didn't get it either.

He hands the phone to me, and I say, "I thought I was your nurse, caregiver. Not your lawyer."

"You're my everything Wendy."

"Mom, did you hear that? I'm HIS EVERYTHING."

HIS EVERYTHING. If it weren't my 73 year old uncle telling me that I'd be over the moon.

I thought we were just picking up a catalog

I took Monday afternoon off to do a couple of things with Uncle Bob. Needed to go to wound care in Renton and since we’d be in the area, I thought I’d drop by the cemetery to pick up a catalog for Uncle Bob to peruse head stones. It’s been since 1991 when Verla passed, and he hadn’t gotten around to ordering a marker for her grave. Now each time we’d talked about this task, Uncle Bob had teared up; Verla truly was his soul mate and I think in the back of his mind, a marker would be pretty darned final.

I’d called over a month ago to arrange a catalog. The guy I’d spoken to said that we could look online, but I kindly refused saying that my uncle is a paper kinda individual. I’ll put something together he says. And he actually followed up call me to ask when we’d be in. That was a month ago. Life got in the way, and we found ourselves in the neighborhood. I told Uncle Bob he could sit in the truck, and I’d be right back.
No, I’ll come in.

10 minutes later, we’ve walked the short distance to the office and inquire about getting a catalog. The receptionist says they don’t have any, and I asked if there was anybody available to help us. She went through the names and I recognized the salesman’s name. He’s on the phone, if you’d like I can have you sit in a room and make a cup of coffee for you? Knowing that the afternoon has been taxing on Bob to begin with, I say sure, 2 cups of decaf and let’s sit in a room.

Been quite a while since I’ve been in a mortuary. We follow the gal into a room that resembles a residential dining room. Obviously decorated as such to make us feel like we are at home and not in such an odd place. You know, end of life place.

Before long, the salesman walks in and we say that we are looking to get a catalog that my uncle needs to arrange a marker for his wife that passed away in 1991. Our phone conversations are recalled and he gets us a catalog. About an inch thick. And I think to myself, there is no way he’ll let us take that home.

Uncle Bob tells him that he wants to be cremated and buried with Verla. That brings up a whole new conversation about 2nd rites and if he has those to be buried in the same plot. Off he goes to pull the card. Coming back we see that Grandma bought 4 plots, one for herself, one for a future husband, and the other two are assigned to Uncle Bob and Uncle Don. So, the salesman says, you can be buried next to her if you like? Digressing into who should go in what plot, pondering Grandma’s plans for a future husband, and what about so and so, we finally get back to 2nd rites and having Verla and Bob together.

Luckily this guy has done this thousands of times right, and begins to direct us on how to pick the marker. Shape, font, saying, design. Holy guacamole.

Flipping through the pages, I see that we gain a little traction in that there are a few pages for dual names. Uncle Bob is quick to choose one; seeing pictures of angels and flowers, he says he’d like to have an eagle on it. Go to the clip art section and you’ll find an eagle the salesman tells us. We find one that matches the tattoo Bob has. This is going well but it’s been about an hour and my attention span is waning. Remember, I planned to pop in, pick up a catalog and head home to start this journey.
Do we have room for a saying? The salesman says yes. Uncle Bob thinks about it for a moment, holding back tears I think but I can’t really tell as his eyes are shadowed by his baseball cap. I was think about writing something like, mother, friend, wife, because that’s what Verla was. We agree, sounds good. What do you think Wendy?

Oh boy, huge commitment here. Suffice or do I offer my opinion? Well Uncle Bob, I’m probably going to tear up a little bit here…but you guys were soul mates. You didn’t need anybody else around but each other. He agrees, the salesman says that’s nice too. Yeah, we could add that to the bottom. You know, she was the best friend I ever had.

That’s it exclaims the salesman. That’s what you should have written on the marker.

Best friend I ever had.

I take a sip of my cold decaf coffee to pull myself together and look at the paperwork in front of the salesman. No eye contact with my Uncle, don’t want the waterworks to start in full force.

Redirecting to pull myself together, I say should we talk about prices then?
We flip the brochure open to the options of burial and Uncle Bob suggests that we might as well pay for his cremation while we are at it. I look at him and say, okay, but we may not be getting the best deal. Yeah, but it’s done then and it would be easier for you right? Yes, yes it would. In the back of my mind, I am also thinking, when did I become the executor of your estate? I really wanted Amy to have that responsibility since she just handled Dad’s. Maybe we can be co-executors…

Looking at the prices, and knowing that Dad had a really good deal, I still asked if we could have the cremation service happen somewhere else. And then bring the ashes to be placed with Verla. Sure, not a problem. Would there be a cost? Like a handling fee? The salesman looks at me and says no. Wanting to make sure that he understands what I’m saying, I explain it like a cork fee. You know, if I bring my own bottle of wine to a restaurant, they charge me a fee. The salesman gets a twinkle in his eye and says, you know, no we don’t have that sort of fee but you have a great idea there.
After we pay for ours, you can start charging that fee okay?

Soon the event starts feeling like buying a used car. The brochure is flipped over and the salesman starts writing figures for cremation, and this fee, and the marker, and the engraving, and the 2nd rites and, and, and. We come up with a figure.

Whoa.

What sort of discount can you give us? This feels like we are paying full retail here.

No cork fee.

Doesn’t count, you get to start charging that after us.

If you pay today, I can give you 10% off but that only applies to this and this, and the state doesn’t allow us to discount that, but this, and this…we get a new figure.

How about a free t-shirt? Any gift with purchase? The salesman looks at me to see if I am serious. Yes, you know, like I got great service at Greenwood Memorial?

No, we don’t have t-shirts.

We’ll settle for these pens then and I point to the gel pens on the table. Oh no, pens are hard to come by here. I can’t give you a pen. I raise my eyebrows; this guy is serious about the pens.

Diverting our attention back to his worksheet, Uncle Bob agrees on the price. The salesman stands up to leave the room and print contracts.

Is there any sort of viewing with this cremation Uncle Bob asks.

The salesman sits back down and explains that the package he is buying does not include a memorial. No, but can people come in for a viewing before I am cremated? You know to say their goodbyes? The salesman looks a bit agitated, like we are not done like he thought he was.

Wendy, Uncle Bob asks me; wouldn’t you like to be able to see me one more time? Well, I mean, no, not really, but if that is what you want, for people to come see you, we need to make that happen. So here’s what you can do the salesman says. Upon your death he looks at Uncle Bob, she just needs to inform the funeral director that we need to do this…

What do you think my uncle asks me again. I’ll do what you wish. Looking at the salesman, I ask him again what I need to say. Writing it down verbatim, I put the note in the folder we will take home. I can’t forget, I have to make sure this happens.

The salesman leaves to get contracts.

I look at my watch and we are 90 minutes into “picking up a catalog.” I call James and let him know that we’ll be awhile, that he and Reyde are on their own for dinner; maybe you should hit McDonald’s.

Uncle Bob is starting to look a bit piqued. When the salesman returns I ask him if we can do this pretty quick as my uncle needs to have some food and we need to head home. Yes, this will be quick; I have a 6pm appointment.

We head out to the foyer to look at marble and pick out the color Uncle Bob wants. Going through all the colors, what looks best with the engraving, what looks good in the rain, what takes upkeep or not. Some are always tidy with the wind, while others get moss and mold growing in them. We lean toward green since Uncle Bob loves the outdoors and the mountains, and we have an eagle.

Heading back to our faux dining room, the salesman notes the color, the clip art number for the eagle, and then asks us for the font to use. Knowing we have hundreds to choose from, I wonder how long this will take. Uncle Bob makes a quick decision and before long we are done.

A signature here, initials there, papers are signed for both his cremation and the grave marker. As Uncle Bob write his name for the final time, the salesman hands us a copy of the contracts and says, and I’ll take those pens. Right.

We shake hands and excuse the salesman from the room. Uncle Bob’s gait is a tad bit slower than his, and he is late for his next appointment. We leave the building and get to the truck.

I ask if he’d like to go visit Verla’s grave and Grandma Lillian’s. No. Let’s head out to Maple Valley and visit with Don and Julie. Sure, but I need food and so do you. Might as well hit up McDonald’s for chicken nuggets and salt free fries. Not the best choice but one that doesn’t mess with his diabetes too bad.

Heading out of the parking lot we see a conveniently placed McDonald’s right across the street. Bet they get used a lot for folks unexpectedly coming to Greenwood.

Quickly ordering and pulling up to the drive through window, I tell Uncle Bob that I don’t plan on driving and eating. You sure you don’t want to have dinner with the girls?

No, we’ll visit them when we place the marker.

As we eat in the parking lot I check out of the corner of my eye to make sure he’s doing okay. Big stuff organized in the last two hours. Closure to his soulmate’s death. Planned his own cremation. AND we were just supposed to be picking up a catalog.

The whole event was pretty non emotional. A business transaction, as if we were buying a new appliance. Perhaps it was so matter of fact as it was unplanned, perhaps because he’d thought about it for a while. I don’t know. I sit back and wonder how I would feel, paying for my own cremation, and planning what will be on my grave marker.

Watching traffic go by, and cars arriving at the funeral home, I remark that he’s gotten a lot accomplished.. Now, you need to remind me what you want and where to have your memorial I tell him.

He says I don’t want to wait until after I’m gone for the party. I think we should have it while I’m still alive so I can hear what people have to say about me.

I laugh, put the truck in gear and head down the road.

My day didn’t’ go as I’d planned. We got home very late and while we didn’t cry, it took a toll on my emotions as I’m sure it did his. Quite a remarkable afternoon.

I knew there’d be life lessons learned living with Uncle Bob. I have to say that I appreciate every day my family gets with him and the opportunity to get to know this man. My uncle.