eavesdropping

I just got back from an interesting little coffee date with a friend.  We had all manner of conversation during this hour.  I personally had a lovely time talking maybe a little too loudly at Panera, laughing at the outrageous things we were sharing, and watching the young couple across the way go from playing footsie to sitting next to each other doing that hair thing.  I noticed people coming and going, but not really.  I certainly didn't pay much attention to the lady three tables over clipping her coupons until she joined our conversation.  Joined our conversation to the point of actually taking it over.  Really?

We finally made our escape and hurried out.  I sorta feel like I need a shower.  My friend and I laughed about that (as well as being relieved that she didn't appear to have heard the entire conversation.)

I'm an eavesdropper too.  I admit it.  I people watch.  I watch parents interact with their kids and smile.  I periodically glanced at that couple and rolled my eyes.  Sometimes I look like I'm reading a book, but there are definitely times where your conversation is more interesting than my book.  I've been known to actually open my mouth to make a comment.  But even I realize that is just not done.  At least most of the time I realize this.

The other day I was waiting in a small hallway for an interminable dance class to be done.  I had work to do, but neither the motivation nor the concentration to do it.  I was stressed and exhausted.  The last place I wanted to be was in this stinky, cramped hallway, but it seemed a good enough location for killing 45 minutes.  Another mom and her cute little guy were having a conversation.  She asked a question that he didn't know the answer to and my filter was out of order so I put out my answer.  I did a metaphorical face plant the second the words came out.  (A common phrase in my existence, "did I say that out loud?")  She made it perfectly clear that my answer wasn't wanted.  Uh, yea, sorry.  I'll shut up now.  And I'll do my waiting elsewhere next week so I don't interrupt your private playground.  In any case, my answer was "Simba".  Sue me.

So, yea.  I get the idea that people may be listening in on conversations and maybe some conversations shouldn't be held in a crowded place.  On the other hand, I think there is an unspoken rule, reinforced by the lovely young mother who might not have said those words as rudely as I heard them, that your comments belong in your head.

A note to creepy eavesdropping lady.  It is perfectly ok to insert your advice on making finger sandwiches, but it is not ok to give your advice on more personal matters.  Really, it's not.

tears of a clown

The two things that I am best at.  Laughing and crying.  I laugh for pretty much any reason.  Sometimes even in situations that others find amusing too.  I laugh at kids, pets, life, toilet humor, mundane events, spoonerisms, malapropisms, ridiculous logic.  I guffaw.  I giggle.  I twitter.  I laugh past the point of reason.  Laughter feels good.  I try not to laugh to hurt other people.  I do occasionally have to apologize and explain when it seems like I might be laughing to hurt rather than just being amused.  Laughter releases all sorts of excess baggage and feelings.  And so on.

The crying serves a function as well.  I cry when things touch me.  There are two books that I absolutely can't read out loud.  The Giving Tree and the kid's book with the toilet on the cover.  Both books demonstrate the nurturing of mothers (or caregivers) as children grow into adulthood.  Ignoring the fact that the tree gives up everything for her ungrateful "child" and the mother crawls into her grown son's window to rock him as he sleeps- both of which are uber creepy- I feel that depth of emotion for the child as the child slips away.  Lest you think I want my children to be dependent on me forever, I absolutely want my growing-too-fast children to mature into self-reliant adults.

I cry during movies.  My little one insisted that I finally watch "Up" with her recently.  Well, I cried at the beginning. I cried at the end.  I cried in the middle a little bit too.  It is a beautiful movie.  The crying was for different emotions.  I was sad that he lost her, but I was moved when she let him go too.  I can't make it through the opening credits of Schindler's List.  I cry for the senseless suffering.  I cry for the fact that a man who seemingly couldn't do anything right made such a huge impact on a few people (well, a lot but not enough- if you know what I mean.)  My biggest cry movie I haven't watched in a very long time.  Legends of the Fall.  I love this movie.  It's where I fell in love with Brad Pitt and Aidan Quinn and Julia Ormond even.  It is an amazing movie.  (Anthony Hopkins is brilliant as well, no surprise.)  If you have never seen it, you should- but have tissues.  This movie puts me in despair for hours.  So I only can watch in when I really need a good cry but don't seem to have a reason.  ha ha.  

For many summers, I read aloud a book to the younger generation of our beach friends.  Somehow the books always seem to have a part where my voice cracks a little bit.  In fact, the last book I read, I was brave enough to look up and saw others joining me in the tears.  We had to stop and have a little cryfest.  One kid, who I jokingly say has no soul, remained dry eyed.  She's not as emotional as the rest of us.  This is ok, of course.  I'm a little jealous that she doesn't have to worry about making a fool of herself in public.

Crying cleanses the soul.  A smart friend told me this.  I agree.  Apparently it's a Jewish proverb, "What soap is for the body, tears are for the soul."  It's kind of like oiling a hinge.  Sometimes the joint just rusts and doesn't move unless you oil it.  Crying is the WD40 of life. 

But I do find myself leaning more towards tears when I'm stressed and tired.  I am then ill equipped to see the positives, to deal with the hurts real and imaginary, to respond to situations that are not ideal.  In those cases, the crying is not the solution, but the symptom.  A wise person I live with often suggests I go to bed.  As if getting adequate sleep is an option when I'm stressed and tired.  Clearly he is someone who isn't plagued with insomnia when not at his best. When I'm stressed and tired, I compound the problem with feeling guilty for every thing I have ever done that was wrong.  There are many things.  Many things.  Daily.  Hourly.  Big things.  Small things.  It doesn't matter.  They all plague me and cause the tears to flow, the brain to work in nonproductive overdrive, the body to feel heavy and old.  And so I cry.  Big tears that make no sense, solve no problems, ease no troubles.  Are these tears cleansing my soul?  I don't think so.  If they are, I have the cleanest soul in town.  I know this is not true.  

How do I deal with these endless, purposeless tears?  Go to bed?  Sure, that would be great.  Laugh?  Yes, that probably would help.  Forgive myself for my imperfections?  Yes!  The hardest thing ever.

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion.  I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.  ~Kurt Vonnegut

the waiting is the hardest part

I'm a squished spring, ready to blow.  I'm coiled inside.  Nothing is fast enough.  Nothing can keep my attention.  I'm cranky.  I'm a little mean.  I'm flitting from one thing to the next.  I'm too anxious to sit still long, so the things I want to do are impossible.  I'm sick of noise, so I don't want to be near anyone.  I'm talking like Chewbacca.  I'm a little less hairy than Chewbacca, thank goodness.

Why am I this beast?  I'm waiting.  I'm ugly when I'm waiting.  I'm no good at it.  I don't like it.  In the immortal words of Freddy Mercury, "I want it all and I want it now."

I make the waiting harder.  Almost always.  I'm waiting to hear back about my grad school application.  It's been a week.  How long do they need?  Well, I know that this past week or this current week is the culmination of the huge summer project that I hope to be doing next summer.  Perhaps they are busy enough without reading an application.  The reason the application was submitted at such a lousy time was that I put off finishing it until summer when the people I needed recommendations from would be otherwise occupied.  Had I finished before the end of school, I would surely know by now.  I would know and be able to plan my fall schedule.  I would be able to get the ball rolling, as it were.

I'm waiting to hear whether I have a job next year.  I probably do, but it's not definite.  I can't seem to be half full about this.  Perhaps I can't be half full because so many school employees lost their jobs at the end of last year.  Why would I have a guarantee when they have more seniority?  So I'm waiting.  This waiting isn't my fault, but that doesn't make it any easier.

I'm waiting to see what happens this week.  My daughter starts marching band.  I loved marching band.  I still talk to friends I made through marching band.  We went great places, we had great fun.  We were silly on school buses.  We worked hard but had fun after school.  We always had something to do on a Friday night that had little to do (really) with football.  For 5 long years, I've been telling my kid that she will love marching band too.  It's been very dramatic at times, since she says she despises clarinet.  So soon we find out if I was right to push.  On the other hand, it won't really be soon to find out that she likes it.  The first half time show isn't until mid-September.  This kid is a performer, so that will be a factor.  So right now I'm waiting to see how much whining I'll have to listen to until then.  I'm waiting to see how much money I'm going to have to fork over to listen to that whining.  I'm waiting to see what the new band director is like.  I'm waiting to see if she'll be friends with the kids in her group.

I'm waiting for an end to a different kind of drama.  An end that apparently will never come.  So I guess I'm really waiting to I figure out that I'm just going to have to get over it.  With every day, it becomes less important to me- which is good because I'm sure it's been completely unimportant to the other people for a long time.  Unfortunately, things always creep in to temporarily make it more important for a little while and I have to start all over.  This is why I'm considering installing a 2 x 4 in the basement for those moments when I need an attitude adjustment (read "smack upside the head").

Then there's the motherhood waiting.  How is this school year going to go?  Are they going to be happy with teachers/classes/friends?  And the long-term waiting.   Is Rebecca ever going to talk slower than the speed of light?  Is Katie ever going to learn to use an inside voice? True story:  a few summers ago Katie went to a pottery camp- the first of many camps where she has irritated the heck out of the teachers.  Imagine.  An enclosed space filled with many children, one of whom goes to 11 nonstop.  I'm sure they all went home with headaches.  We saw the camp instructor outside at a downtown event.  We all spoke to him, including Katie.  He said that was the quietest he'd ever heard her be.  We laughed and said she was using her "outside voice".  In fact, for a while we told her to use her outside voice when we wanted a little less volume.

I have a new hobby that was supposed to entertain me while I'm waiting.  It's not helping.  I'm too frazzled to work on it right now, but yet I still need to obsessively check on it to see what's happening.  Nothing is happening.  And when I did work on it, then I have to wait to see what other people thought about it.  I'm doing this for fun, right?  Why do I care what anyone else thought about it?  Why do I turn entertainment into something that I have to wait for?  Why can't it just be a nice little surprise?

I'm reading a book.  I can't wait for it to be over.  I usually love this author.  I've read and enjoyed many of her books.  My Sister's Keeper, Nineteen Minutes, Change of Heart, House Rules were all thought-provoking, interesting, moving stories- books I wanted to talk about.  I'm having trouble being moved by Sing You Home.  Well, I was moved at first.  In the first 10 pages, I was on the verge of tears twice.  I think I waited until page 27 before the tears finally spilled.  But by page 97, I was done with tears.  They were running a buy one/get one deal on melodramatic plot twists and Jodi got a bulk discount.  Everything that you can imagine has happened to these characters.  I'm immune now.  I'm going to finish it now, if I can make myself.  I need to lend the book to a friend who I'm seeing later today.  I'm going to wait to read another one of her stories.  And, yes, I want to talk about this book with someone else who has read it.  If only to find out if I'm right or if I'm just Chewbacca.

the road

I was looking at one of my favorite photo websites on Facebook (ok, truthfully probably the only photo website I look at).  There is was!  The photo of a beautiful, if slightly downtrodden, gateway with a small, inviting driveway, leading to a mysterious, undisclosed location. Now, I happen to know where the gateway is so the location is not a mystery to me.  But still, I looked at this photo today and I saw the possibilities of the future. 

Time passes and things change- age- if we must go there (which I really refuse to do.  I'm NOT getting older.  I won't allow it.)  The mortar between the bricks gets a little cracked.  The earth may settle under the footings.  The paint may chip away at the gate.  But looking at this photo, I don't see the reality of those things.  I see the flowers surrounding the gate- beautifying, enriching, encasing with life and promise.  I see the path, small, but big enough for the travel of whomever needs to go there.

I can imagine.  In a romantic mood, I can imagine a lovely young woman in a sunny yellow hooped dress with all the trimmings arm in arm with her beau strolling up the path to her home where her mother waits anxiously at the window.  In a more realistic mood, I can imagine two sisters fresh out of the creek, covered in algae and mud, chasing each other up the road to their mother waiting angrily at the window.  In a dramatic mood, I can imagine the battle-weary, damaged, tired young man slowly limping his way up the path as his mother wistfully at first, then joyfully, waits at the window.  But this was not a story about the mother who waits at the other end of the road- at least I didn't think so.  But maybe it really is- if I'm having a philosophical, spiritual mood that I wasn't aware of.

I thought it was a mood of decisions.  Not even that there is a decision to be made at this moment.  But choices are always there waiting.  So we choose.  There is the path forward, uncertain.  There is the path that we already traveled.  The path traveled is important too, no doubt.  The path traveled is what makes us who we are.  Every road we've tried, every fork with the choices we've made, every time we've left the path completely makes us who we are.

I think about the gateway.  Since I know where it is, I know what lies the other direction.   It's a well-maintained, historical, interesting cemetery.  I've spent many hours there throughout my life.  People I loved are buried there.  People I miss.  But the cemetery is not for the living.  If I stay there at that gateway thinking about the cemetery and the past, I'm not living. 

And now I mix my metaphors.  Life is not just about moving forward or staying back, it's also about choosing paths.  We don't see it, but in the location there are other paths nearby.  One path leads to the same place (convenient, that).  But nearby is another path that leads to another exciting possibility- in fact one that is a little less likely to get me arrested for trespassing.  Also there are two roads that lead to wonderful places.  So if I step back from the photo, I suddenly have more choices.  I can now insert my quote from a perfectly delightful poem by Robert Frost.  Admit it, you felt it coming.

 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference

I seem to choose the less traveled path in principle.  Sometimes I wonder if I choose a path that requires a machete just because I like the struggle.  Other times I wonder if the path makes me interesting or just weird.  Sometimes I wish I would choose the common path just for the ease.  And sometimes I follow the "regular" path like a lemming.  And sometimes what seemed like the common path at the time, was not. 

Sheryl Crow, the queen of deep and quirky, gives this advice...
Jump in, let's go
Lay back, enjoy the show
Everybody gets high, everybody gets low,
These are the days when anything goes
Every day is a winding road
I get a little bit closer
Every day is a faded sign
I get a little bit closer to feeling fine

I'm certain Sheryl is talking directly to me.  She lets me know that it's ok!  Life is complicated and that's good.  Sometimes traveling the road will make me happy, sometimes it will make me sad, but I have to be on the road.  The show is worth it, and I will be fine.  And don't just do it halfway.  JUMP in.  Don't walk on that road.  Run, skip, dance, sometimes stroll leisurely, maybe even walk backwards, but do not just walk.  Sometimes bring a machete or a companion or a guide.  Sometimes wear hiking boots or rain boots or sandals.  Sometimes wear a parka or a sweater or a bikini (ok, never wear a bikini).

Do we follow the path?  Do we dare to see where it leads?  Do we make a choice less common?  Do we wander the path that might lead us home?  Yes!!  

Baileyville Photo:

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=216181528421038&set=pu.141602132545645&type=1&theater

certain that it's probably not going to happen

This week was a week in my head- not a particularly pretty place.  I spent the whole week thinking about something that I was sure was going to happen.  It crossed my mind at odd times.  It made my disposition less than sunny.  I finally took charge of myself and said, "Self, this is not going to happen.  You need to get a grip and move on."  So I did.  I made a list in my head of the things that aren't going to happen and started thinking about the things that are going to happen.  Truthfully, the following items were not on those lists because you really just can't know all my secrets.  And, by the way, the thing I convinced myself wasn't going to happen actually did, and it was completely underwhelming.

I got to thinking about a fun math lesson from school this year.  The kids were learning about certain, unlikely, and definitely not.  I made little cards with examples from each category.  The kids had to read the card and decide which category the statement fit.  Being a silly person, I had an amusing time writing the cards and hearing the results of my labors.  As I was leaving for the day, the little boy I always called the wrong name (not my fault- his best friend has the same name without the "th" in the middle!) got the one "Mrs. K. will call me the wrong name."  I laughed the whole way home.  Everyone thought the "Mrs. S. is going to have a baby gorilla." was hilarious.  Those were the best two, but how much fun we had playing this game.  It was definitely a fun way to think about real vs. not and certain vs. uncertain.

Not going to happen

* I'm not going to win the lottery.

* I'm not going to transform in Donna Reed overnight.

* I'm not going to influence my outsides by wishing.

* I'm not going to be perfect at anything.

* I'm not going to be famous.

* I'm not going to grow up.

Likely to happen

* I will do something stupid like almost go to jail for a parking ticket.

* I will say or do something I shouldn't.

* I will be a very blond brunette.

* I will volunteer for something I shouldn't that will cause me great aggravation.

* I will be sad for no good reason.

* I will want to do something good for other people.

* I will finish this stinking grad school application after working on it for 5 months(?)

* I will work hard at my summer camps and have fun in spite of myself.

* I will be mean to my beloved hubby when he's sick, taking up space, and not doing anything for me.

* I will influence my insides by being stubborn and by wishing.

Certain to happen

* I will laugh at something funny one of my kids say- daily.

* I will cry through Annie, Les Miserables, and Folger's commercials.

* I will finish reading several books, but not as many as I have on my list.

* I will find humor in other people's silliness.

* I will get a hug when I need one.

* I will be loved by my family and love them right back.

* I will be sarcastic.

* I will be as moody as a teenager- and I have an excellent role model for that one.

How do you live a life filled with items that fit into such slots?  How do you move on from the things that definitely won't happen?  How do you turn maybes into certainties?  How can I live life as the blondest brunette ever?  Yep, good questions.  The answers are clear.  Life is uncertain, eat dessert first.  Life is mind over matter: the people who mind don't matter and the people who matter don't mind.    Be flexible.  Even though I hate that word just a little bit, I can do it.  I can do whatever I put my mind to.  And so can you.

mania from heaven?

This past week has been... interesting.  A few times I found myself wondering if I was really quite sane, even a little bit, I mean.  I just was so stinking.. happy.  Nothing bothered me.  I wasn't required to be "flexible" about a thing.  I pretty much accomplished nothing.  And, wow, was life amusing this week.

My children, and the assorted random friends who showed up, seemed to think they deserved lunch.  I freely admit that I disagreed.  But I pretty much forced myself from my busy business of doing nothing to throw some pasta in a pot.  While elder spawn watched (and why exactly wasn't she making the noodles anyhow?), I "opened" a box of spaghetti.  Unfortunately, it was already open.  So when I lifted the box, the enormous box of spaghetti dumped its contents directly below it.  On my feet.  I looked down- this hurts way more than you'd think by the way- to see a spaghetti sculpture impaled on my feet.  I seriously looked for blood.  After I finished laughing.  And laughing.  And laughing.  Rebecca joined me in laughter for a while until she thought maybe I'd laughed just a little too long.  Then she left the room as she realized cleaning up was going to have to happen.

The next day, another friend over for a lunch- even more culinarily delightful than spaghetti.  Then her mom called to make a plan to acquire child.  A plan that involved a trip to the library and Rita's.  I was all about it!  So we went to the library.  Rebecca disappeared upstairs.  This is important because we actually left her behind and had to go back to get her.  Anyhow, chaos at the library included a chance meeting with several kids from my class this year.  Including the one Katie calls my "nemesis".  Absolutely not.  This boy provided me with endless laughter this whole year.  Anyway, I made the mistake of telling this boy that we were going to Rita's also after the library.  So we all went together (as his mother and sister really had no choice), me, my two kids, my friend, one of her daughters and this other family.  Amusing already.  We did have the private girl table.  Thank goodness.  So. The spaghetti incident happened to come up in conversation, which made me laugh again.  My giggles morphed into guffaws from the looks on my daughters' faces when they realized that I actually cooked that stinking spaghetti.  Um, yea.  I wasn't throwing a pound of spaghetti away (especially since I wasn't eating any of it anyhow).  Well, then there was some flailing about (I did mention that Katie was with us, right?) and Katie hit Rebecca's spoon which did the predictable double flip, spewing gelati all over the table and assorted other places.  This sent the psycho (me) into absolute gales of laughter.  Then there was Katie holding a spoon full of stuff while also laughing, a constant stream of ice stuff dripping on her legs and clothes.  Which was also hilarious to me.  I was laughing so hard, I could barely see the stares of horror around me and those 3 stuffy ladies LEAVING Rita's in a huff.  I couldn't even look at my friend.. who, while completely wonderful, is NOT like me. 

As we're leaving, Katie tells me that she thought my "nemesis" was really annoying.  This made Rebecca and I laugh all the more.  Day 1 of school I knew this boy was Katie's clone, from the constant loudness, absolute unsolicited opinions, in your face all the time, all the way to the matching forehead scars.  Oh, yea, and he never listened to a word I said.

The last time I had a week even a little bit like this past week, was the end of April or early May.  I found myself just walking around smiling- even more than usual.  I must have looked completely simple with that smile on my face.  No apparent reason.  It took me days to realize why I was so happy.  I'd just finished a free-for-all.  April was Easter and all that goes with that.  The final weeks of my Penn State course which entailed the final written project and the horrific presentation.  And the culmination of Rebecca's middle school musical and my being in charge of ticket sales- ticket booth is great fun but a big time commitment.  So all of this finished up.  So here I was, in the situation of no longer smacking my head against a wall and it felt good.  So my foolish smiling was the absence of chaos and stress.

Not really being very bright, it wasn't until my week of utter laziness was coming to an end and my corresponding mania was ebbing, that I realized I was so manic, happy, and amused this week because I wasn't banging my head against the wall again and it felt good.

So I guess it's a good thing that there are very few weeks that are like these.  Or maybe it's good that I can vent happiness.  Or maybe I do really need therapy for incredible mood swings.  I think I can safely say that a little bit of laughter in life is good.  It feels good.  According to Reader's Digest, it's the best medicine.  I know for darn sure, when your life is filled with people who may or may not listen to you, who may or may not take initiative to make their own stinking lunch, who may or may not think you are a public embarrassment, it's a good thing to be able to laugh at them and yourself.

rememorial day

It's Memorial Day again.  As a central Pennsylvania girl long before I moved to central Pennsylvania, Memorial Day in Boalsburg is full of history.

This is how we celebrate it now:  my little family joins my mother, father and brother in a trek through the cemetery in Boalsburg putting flowers on the graves of dead relatives.  It involves getting along with those people for at least an hour.  It involves telling my daughters stories of the relatives.  Probably the same stories each year, but since I doubt they are really listening the stories seem fresh.

How we used to celebrate was certainly different.  When the great aunts and uncles, now the beneficiaries of the flowers, were alive the cemetery visit was an amazing adventure.  We'd meet at Anna Nanna's (it was years before I found out her name was really Aunt Anna Mary) sweet little house with the gorgeous garden.  Someone had visited a florist for the beginnings of the arrangements, but so many of the flowers came from Anna Nanna's garden.  Columbines are forever a symbol of this day for me and always make me think of her.  I'm sure my help was less than helpful, so I'd wander about to check out the sheep and their little backyard surrounded by trees and covered in succulent grass.  In any case, what seemed like hundreds of people put together these fabulous arrangements- the floral containers stored in their garage just for this day, as far as I know.  I don't remember how we got the flowers and the people across Atherton to the cemetery, but we did.  Wow, what a big deal to get just the right flowers to the right relative.  In those days, I probably hadn't even known any of the people.  The list was long.  I probably whined and was in a hurry, but I don't remember it as being tedious.

Aunt Anna Mary and Uncle Fred were so interesting.  They were childless, so their house was probably a nightmare for my mother when my brother and I were young.  I remember Anna Nanna as a sweet, little old lady who always wore classic clothing and school marm tie up pumps.   She had this sweet lady voice, but really was tough as could be.  She had a foot pump organ which she eventually allowed my brother and I to play.  She had a gorgeous braided rug that I seem to remember she let me help mend on occasion.  Uncle Fred was interesting.  He was pretty crotchedy and a wealth of bad language by the time I knew him.  I just talked to someone the other day who'd interviewed him years ago.  He was a famous guy in his day.  In my day, he was a bald guy with good stories.

I remember one time at Anna Nanna's when her younger sister, the bold one, was visiting and she and I laid out in the back yard in our bras and underwear.  (I may actually not have been a bra wearer at the time.)  Aunt Ginny was absolutely my favorite.  She was all things cool and sophisticated.  She had gorgeous silver hair and always wore fabulous silver jewelry (definitely my role model for loving silver jewelry) and she knew just the right colors to wear to be gorgeous.  Aunt Ginny and Uncle Dave lived in Pennington, New Jersey for many years.  We'd go visit them every year, stay in their adorable house and go to the Jersey shore for a day trip.  Aunt Ginny loved Fiestaware- which I still love.  Uncle Dave was a jigsaw puzzle man.  We always did puzzles on that trip.  It was awesome when Aunt Ginny and Uncle Dave moved to Boalsburg!  They were so much closer.  I loved visiting them more frequently!

No Memorial Day retrospective is complete without mentioning Aunt Fern and Uncle Bob.  They had a sweet little house next to the park.  For years and years, I'd walk past their house with the wisteria tree and think of them.  (The tree is gone now.)  Aunt Fern was in charge of the annual soup and bread sale in downtown Boalsburg for as many years as I can remember.  This soup thing happens to this day.  We don't usually catch that event any more.  It was on the agenda for many, many years- even after she was gone.  Something about many people's vegetable combined into one and bread slathered in butter is a real treat after the decorating of the graves.  I don't remember much about Uncle Bob and Aunt Fern- they were pretty quiet.  Their only child was run over by a car when she was 16, perhaps that's why they seemed so quiet.

Boalsburg was a big part of my childhood, even though I didn't live near back then.  The great aunts and uncles, the tribute to Memorial Day, the craft booths, the family gatherings, the canons booming, the military museum all were a huge part of my family experience.  Then I got married and moved to Maryland and coming to Boalsburg for Memorial Day seemed too much of an ordeal, so we didn't.  Unfortunately, by the time we moved back to Pennsylvania, all these wonderful relatives were permanent residents of the cemetery.

So now, I bring my daughters to put flowers on the graves of the people I knew and loved who never knew my babies.  Rebecca asked me today at each grave if that person knew I had children.  The answer was always no.  So I told her little stories of each one.  The flowers are not so much for the dead, but for the living aren't they?

This event was made all the more poignant by the discovery of the saddest tombstone of all.  It's actually a beautiful tombstone- dark stone, with a pretty beach scene etched on the right and a coastline with houses on the left side.  A very peaceful tombstone.  The name etched so distinctly in the stone and in our hearts- visible from far away.  This grave site- too new to be covered with grass- is now covered in beautiful flower petals.  Rebecca and I stood there crying as we pulled the petals to decorate the grave of her beloved gym teacher who was much, much too young to leave this world.