Tag Archives: mom

Keys

25 Wednesday Jan 2023

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One year, for Christmas I assume, my mom got my sister and I necklaces. They couldn’t have been very expensive, by any means, definitely less that $100. But my mom never did anything half way.

Her 100% always came in the form of thoughtfulness and care. When giving gifts she put a lot of thought into it, wanting to get someone something that she knew they would love, or that meant a lot.

Now I cannot remember for the life of me what my sister got. But I remember mine was a key. She told his, when she gave them to us (at least she told me), that she picked them out special, and there was a reason she got us what she did.

I asked her why she got me the key and why it was so special. Her answer was super annoying at the time but also very much her. “You’ll know.” She said. “It’ll come to you.”

Now, this was a long time ago, I want to say I wasn’t married yet. But I tend to remember obscure useless things as opposed to important information, so it’s safe to say I’m getting something wrong. But I do remember saying, “well, I do like keys.” And I do.

(There’s a bag of random keys somewhere in my house that happened to be in my husband’s brother’s belongings when he passed. My mother in law gave them to my husband for me and said, “give these to Crystal, she might be able to do something with them.” I actually have ideas.)

Now, not knowing why she choose the key for me bothered me, for years, but not enough for me to stress it. It wasn’t that big of a deal, and I did love the necklace. And my mom.

But through the circumstances of life, one loses things, they go back and forth, and get misplaced, no matter how valuable they are to you. I cannot tell you the last time I saw that necklace. And it’s not been recent. It hurts my soul that I’m missing something from her. But I’m sure she’d understand, she’d lost enough of her own items in her lifetime.

But I recently remembered it. I often do, when keys are involved.

When she died (I’ve always found “passed away” to be an odd saying) we were going through her things, as tradition sees fit. I never understood why it had to be rushed. But one of the things we decided to search through was her jewelry box.

Said jewelry box has its own history. She’d had it for many many years, I believe since she was 16. It’s beautiful and old and full of the most random items, that are NOT jewelry. Except the mood ring.

We went through that box that day, looking at all the little trinkets and knick knacks and items she’d hoarded with the best intentions. Pictures and figurines and pennies. Locks of hair and crumbled four leaf clovers.

All of it has attached memories and stories and lore that will never be shared again, at least not in the most perfect, wonderful way she told it. Memories lost of a lifetime turned to ashes blown in the wind one humid sunny day.

On that jewelry box, whose hinges had been pried off for access previously—I do not know who by, nor whether their intentions were good or bad, there is nothing if monetary value there—is a lock.

The lock is a sturdy one, strong. By a company that I believe no longer exists. The reason the hinges were pried off, was because they couldn’t get to the lock. Now, Mom had lost the key multiple times. Which isn’t hard to believe, knowing her and how long she’d had the jewelry box. There were two keys.

That day, the day she died, and we decided to dig gently through the physical representations of my mother’s youth, reliving the memories of the stories she told about every single item, I somehow became the guardian of one of the keys.

I now keep the key, hanging from a chain, with two cheap mother of pearl style buttons decorating it. I sometimes wear it out and about, and like to imagine that she’s near when I do.

As the years have gone by, as they do in spite of our best wishes, I think of my mom less often, and those thoughts are more often less sad. I’ve had one or two very very brief seconds where I have forgotten, for a glimpse of a moment, that she is gone. And living in the momentary thought, that maybe I could still call her number and tell her, “goodnight, I love you” is pure bliss.

But wearing the key to her jewelry box, and somehow the key to her memories and a key to memories of her and with her, I am reminded of that key necklace. And her reason behind giving it to me.

“You’ll know.” She’d said. “It’ll come to you.”

I am the keeper of a key. Her key. My key.

My world needs you, but you do not need this world. 🔑
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Story Time: Why I Wanted to Become a Writer

15 Thursday Dec 2022

Posted by in Non-Fiction, Story Time

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To be frank, the why can be summed up with one word, and that one word is a who. Mom.

You see, my mother was one of those mom’s who encouraged, to the fullest extent of the law, her children, if she thought her children could make something of themselves. And even if she didn’t really think they could make a life of it, but if it made them happy. And I truly believe it made her happy to encourage us and cheer us on, and root for us.

Take my brother, for example. My brother, the second oldest in the family and the second son, was a football player. He was, I believe, on the first football team at our elementary school. Now, when my biography gets written in 115 years, don’t quote me. But that’s how I remember it. Both brothers played basketball for a minute, but Second really took to football like no body’s business.

And even though she knew that he could get seriously injured doing it, and she knew that if he did she couldn’t legally race onto the field and pummel the ever-loving nonsense out of the boy who dared to tackle her player, she thoroughly enjoyed cheering him and the rest of the team on from the bleachers. This did have a lot to do with the fact that she made friends with the other moms, but that’s not what we’re talking about here.

She loved to cheer her children on. When the Oldest was the first to graduate high school, she was thrilled. Anytime we did anything good, she was happy for us, and encouraged us.

She is also the reason why I stuck with the education major in college. Sophomore year I wanted to change my major to creative writing. I also had a point where I wanted to drop out, take a few semesters off, and join the circus get a job. But that’s not what we’re discussing here either.

“Tear Drops Frozen In Time”

When I was in elementary school, I’m not sure what grade (it was a LONG time ago) I wrote a story. “Duh, Crystal” is what you are probably thinking as you roll your eyes and consider scrolling on. But if you stick with me, I will get to the point. I’m not sure this was my first ever story. I’m not even sure how much I wrote. But I can tell you what it was about and how it began. It was written in a notebook, not spiral bound, and the loose sheets were tucked into a folder with my school’s mascot on them.

Now, in that grade, in my state, we did writing portfolios as an end-of-year assessment of our knowledge. These portfolios usually included various types of writing, including fiction pieces. That year, I remember a teacher, who wasn’t usually at our school, there helping us with those writing portfolios. I remember spending a lot of time in what passed as a computer lab in a rural Kentucky elementary school in the early 90s and that woman being there.

It was around this time that I wrote “Tear Drops”. And I remember either myself or Mom mentioning that I should take my story to school and let that teacher read it. Now keep in mind the story was not finished, and had it been, it would have been a LONG one. Because I have always been long winded.

Thinking about the story now, I am remembering other stories I wrote, and wishing I’d kept copies of all of them.

Also, honey, I asked for a frickin’ TYPEWRITER for Christmas one year. Second (the brother) kept trying to throw me off the scent when I guess that the biggish box under the tree was my typewriter. Man, I miss that clickity clack sometimes.

Back to the point. My mom was my biggest fan, always. And she was the first and for a long time only person I nervously handed my stories over to for them to be read. And when she read that one, she said she loved it and it would be a great story.

And, as I said, I can’t remember whose idea it was for me to take that story to school and share with this woman I did not really know, who I assume I thought was a bigwig when it came to writing. Because I shared it with her and she too seemed to love the story. And she did something that was probably bad for me in the long run. She told me that she knew some people in publishing and said that she would tell them about my story.

You do not, under any circumstances tell a child, especially one who longs for acceptance and praise, that you’re going to do something that will make them dream. Because that kid, me, will take that thing and make it HER ENTIRE PERSONALITY FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE.

I let a stranger make me believe I was going to be a published author as a child.

But listen, dear readers, because I am not the only one who was offended when that mystery lady failed to make me a famous author before puberty. Because who do you think was the first person who I ran right home to and told about this silly lady in the computer room who is gonna talk to her book friends?

Yup. Da Momma.

Eventually, portfolio writing season came to an end and that lady disappeared from my school like my paycheck after the bills are paid. I never saw her again, until one fateful evening, where we were, ironically, in line at waiting to pay our way in to a high school football game (where my brother was playing, we only went when he was a player). I’m not sure how much time had passed between the two meetings, but I’m not lying when I say my mother wanted to ask her about it.

I remember telling her that the woman probably wouldn’t even remember all that, and to forget about it.

Unfortunately

It was sometime later when it came to pass that the story in question, “Tear Drops Frozen in Time” went missing. It went missing because it got placed into storage that ended up probably being put in long term storage (literally a crawl space in a decrepit building behind our house). It was placed there because I should have been paying more attention to what was going where.

Sadly, though, my mom blamed herself for it going missing, and its likely eventual burning in a trash pile later on. I don’t care what I told her and how many times I tried to tell her not to worry about it, but she blamed herself for it for years. And if I could have asked her about it on her death bed, I’m sure she would have still blamed herself, even decades later.

In conclusion, it is her fault. Her fault not for the story going missing, but for that story setting me on this pointless uphill path of wanting to be a writer. I blame her for that, and that is all, when it comes to the story. Her faith and hope and absolute enthusiasm that we could do great things. And you know, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Except that story going missing. I would fix that bit.

Bonus Content: “Tear Drops” A Synopsis.

Like I said, it has been multiple decades, since I wrote the story, but I can give you the gist of what it was about. The story was centered those glass teardrop shaped ornaments that usually hang off chandeliers and lamps. I don’t know for sure where I got it, but I know where I left it and that’s yet another story for another time. Okay, it’s not that big a story, when I was young and I hyperfused on one thing I would tend to pack that thing around with me wherever I went. This time, I took the glass tear drop to my uncle’s house for the weekend. All of us kids went, and they had two little girls younger than us. We were playing in an old van and I had it wrapped up in a tissue or handkerchief and I tucked it in the cubby in the door and forgot it there. Never went back to that house either, because they moved.

Any who, “Tear Drops Frozen in Time” was going to be about an adopted girl who, one day on her way home from school, obviously while carrying around a teardrop shaped crystal, sees the light from the sun change. Shimmering lights (like what you’d see when sun comes through crystals, like a prism, or rainbows are all over the ground when monsters (?) like she’s never seen before, come out of the light and kidnap her.

But also, in another world, there are two women who look a great deal alike (twins?). Except one is clearly evil and has the other good woman locked up. There’s this great sphere with shapes in it. Some of the spaces are empty and some are not. One space is teardrop shaped. These women, who are sisters it turns out, argue.

The evil woman wants to capture this girl because she has the teardrop and the good one, who wants out to stop her evil sister, is SHOCKER the girl’s MOTHER! The girl is actually from this other world and the teardrops are powerful crystals that can do many things, including but not limited to traveling between worlds. The mother sent the girl to the mortal world/our world/ boring old frumpy earth to protect her and the teardrop she carries everywhere was a gift to help protect her.

And that’s all I’ve got for you, my dudes.

The Purple Purse

31 Wednesday Aug 2022

Posted by in Non-Fiction

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I was once asked if not having a place to go to “visit” my mother’s remains, like a gravesite, was hard.

I’ve thought about her a lot lately. I think about her every day, but it’s usually a small blip of, “oh that reminds me of her” or “she would have liked to see The Kid do that”. But lately it’s more significant, more tangible.

I was going through my closet, searching for things to rid myself of, the clutter of life collected after 37+ years of living. I happened upon a tote full of purses. There was a Dooney and Burke handbag my mother in law gave me, a Coach duffle, that’s probably fake, and a purple purse.

This purple purse has significance to me. I eyeballed this purse for a month. Told myself I didn’t need it, couldn’t afford it. But it was only $35, I think. I wanted it badly, but knew that I only carried purses for a little while then stopped.

I eventually convinced myself to get it, it’s not a fancy brand name, it’s not the best looking purse. But I got it and told myself I’d carry it forever. I think I did for a long time. My iPad fit in it and so it became a briefcase of sorts.

I eventually bought a pretty floral wallet and pouch to match—purse organization is important—and was so proud of it. But eventually, like every purse, I stopped carrying it. I got bored of packing one, it got too full and heavy, I just didn’t need all that stuff.

But guess who decided they wanted to borrow it? Yep. My momma.

Mom was a purse lover. She was very particular about the purse she carried. And apparently the purple purse suited her needs. So I loaned it to her.

She was also a smoker, however. Up until the last four months of her life she smoked heavily. I knew the purse would come back to me reeking of the smell, but being the daughter of smokers, I’ve learned how to get rid of it. So it didn’t bother me much.

By the time she died one April, I’d completely forgotten about the purse. I don’t know how long she’d had it. But after her death, we were going through her things as a family, and there it was, still in good condition, with the wallet and pouch still in fine shape as well.

And it did not reek of cigarette smoke. It smelled like the faux leather it was made of, the house it was stored in, and by association: her.

Everyone has their own unique smell. A combination of bodily chemistry, and the things we surround ourselves with. That’s why perfume can smell different on one person than it does another. Just like everyone, Mom had her own unique smell. Her bodily chemistry, the house she lived in, and yes even the cigarette smoke.

The thing is, I never smelled the smoke on her, unless she was actively smoking. and even after she quit completely, I never smelled anything but her.

And when I opened up that tote with those purses just a few days ago, I didn’t at first recognize that smell. It was a nostalgic smell, a scent of dusty old memories kept in an enclosed container for far too long. And it had been so long, more than four years in fact, since I looked at that purse, I didn’t realize the significance of it.

But then I opened it up, after having tossed it aside to view the fake Coach duffle (I’m pretty sure it’s fake based on the format of the serial number don’t tell my mother in law it’s fake). Inside that purple purse, was the wallet and pouch, but also another reminder of my mother. Two unused bottles of Vanilla Fields perfume, still in the box. Her signature scent and absolute favorite.

Our last Christmas with her I’d purchased her four bottles, it was just a few dollars a bottle—a Christmas special—I gifted her some every year. And every year she was absolutely thrilled to have it. She’d open one up and immediately spray some on her neck and wrists.

Also in the purse were two tubes of lipstick, one I’d given her and one she’d purchased herself. Both had been used and both, being at least five years old, weren’t in the best of shape. Like the perfume, the lipsticks have gone off too.

Of all the things I’d gathered up that day to put in my mother-in-law’s yard sale, that purse, and it’s contents, will not be finding a new home. Between that being something I had to convince myself to buy, and her being the last to carry it, it stays.

Perhaps one day, when I’m feeling like carrying a purse again, instead of shopping around for a new one, I’ll dig into that closet, to the bottom tote in the middle, the black one. I’ll open up that lid, letting the smell waft out and permeate the air, and pull that purse from storage.

But then it’d start to smell less like her and more like me, and I don’t know that I’m ready for that.

Is not having a gravesite to visit when I’m thinking of my mom hard? No. Not only do I have a purple purse that smells of her, several pairs of earrings that belonged to her, but also, a small glass bottle of her ashes. I also have her with me, in my heart and mind.

These fleshy husks of skin and bone and tissues aren’t going to last forever. These are not who we are. These are what carries us around this mortal world. When our bodies finally reach their expiration date and spoil, we leave them. 37+ years in and I still don’t know where the rest goes, if anywhere. But I know that she is not those ashes or a body that those ashes became. She is the memory that I have, triggered by the smell of that purse, those bottles of Vanilla Fields. And I can visit her, and talk to her anytime I want. She may not answer back (I’d question my sanity if she did) but I know I can remember her anytime I want to.

Four years ago today I had already heard the last words my mom ever spoke to me

17 Sunday Apr 2022

Posted by in Family, Non-Fiction

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She told me that I had been her rock. She had been in and out of the hospital for four months and I’d been there for most of it. I was there for her because it made me feel better to be near her when she was sick.

Mostly because out of all four of her kids, I lived the furthest away, and wasn’t able to see her as much as I would have liked.

Those were the last words she said to me. She’ had said them as I left her in the hospital, by herself, hours away from home. I had no idea the next time I saw her she would be in and out of consciousness.

I know those were her last words to be.

It hadn’t occurred to me at the time that they’d be her last. Had I known that’d be the last time I’d hear her voice I wouldn’t have left that room.

Thinking about it now I realize I haven’t grieved for her in a while. Not just felt sad that she’s not here anymore. I do that daily. But really grieved. I remain wrapped up in my own frustration and depression and honestly constant physical pain of some sort.

Oh and mindlessly watching short videos on the internets.

I have a tick tack.

On Tuesday (4/19) it’ll be four years since she died. I have to work that day. It’s my least favorite work day. I hate Tuesdays. I’m sure I’ll be my usual borderline angry but trying to hide it self.

But with a touch of sad.

She would have loved my Kid’s gap-tooth grin. She would have loved watching the grandbabies hunt eggs, and my oldest nephew being a goofball. She would have enjoyed sitting with us outside while the kids played. She would have liked my brother‘a fiancé, I think. I’ve only met her a few times. But mom liked everyone, at least until they did her dirty.

I had no idea that writing a blog post about her would be hard. I’m laying next to my my sleeping Kid, writing this, trying not to cry.

The pain of loss, of losing someone you love so much, it never goes away. It is a wound that never heals. And it can never heal because we keep—whether intentional or not—picking at the scab that covers it. We let it bleed a little.

But I will not lie and say that it doesn’t get a little easier to cope with the pain. Over time, you get used to it. It’s like an uncomfortable buzzing sound coming from your ceiling fan. But you cannot sleep without the cool air so you leave it on. And eventually you forget it.

Or how you can always see your nose, your brain just erases it.

All I know is that every day for the last four years my heart has ached and wished she was still here. Eventually I stopped crying every day. But sometimes I hear a sad song, or watch the video from her surprise 60th Birthday party. And I peel away the scab and let the wound bleed.

Doing so sometimes feels like a little bit of therapy. But then I calm down, dry my eyes. And maybe I should start remembering that I’m her rock. Even if rocks gotta cry.

In Loving Memory. 11/10/1956-04/19/2018

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We Love You, Always.

-c

22 Tuesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Family, Gadgets, Non-Fiction

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When my husband and I first started dating, I was a broke college student. In our many conversations and in our many dates, I told him, “when I graduate and start working, I’m going to get myself an iPod Nano.” This statement really dates me, but at the time he’s just purchased himself one and I loved it. And I couldn’t wait to be able to get myself things.

You see, growing up we weren’t always able to get the unnecessary things we wanted. It was more or less “do you need it”. Sure, there was Christmas, and nothing made my mom more proud than being able to get us the things we would want. But I was never upset or angry because I didn’t get what I wanted. I understood.

Okay I might have had my moments. But I never resented it and always got over it. Eventually.

So, being college educated meant that when I was employed I’d be making good money, and could provide for myself. So coming up with things I wanted that I’d be able to have was like a game for me.

Well, Mr Man beat me too it.

Our first Christmas he surprised me. And if I remember correctly it was in a box, in a box. He bought me the iPod Nano. I was shocked, surprised, excited, and told him over and over that he didn’t have too. It’s a lot of money for someone you’d been dating for less than six months.

We eventually got married (he proposed with the second thing I told myself I’d get once I got my first post-college job: a Nintendo DS). And I eventually got a job, just not in the field I went to school for. This time I did but the thing I wanted. An iPod touch.

I gave the Nano to my mom thinking that since she liked music she could learn to use it and have a slew of songs to listen too while cleaning. I’m honestly not sure if she ever used it.

She died nine months ago, and I miss her terribly. I miss her nagging and griping and laughter and “I love you” and her cooking and her smile and her hugs and, well, everything. But my sister was recently helping my dad by going through some of Mom’s things and guess what she found.

That tiny iPod Nano.

I brought that bad boy home and, not only does it have songs I forgot about but also solitaire and sims bowling and best of all, pictures. Of her.

*normally I will not share photos of myself or my family here, but this is special.

I love and miss you silly woman, thank you for being such a good mom and hoarder and never throwing anything out.

Thanks for reading

-c

My mom wants me to write her a letter.

10 Wednesday Jan 2018

Posted by in Family, Non-Fiction

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We don’t live far from each other. I talk to her every day.

When I was a kid (because everything before college graduation was childhood) I’d write her letters. Sometimes it was little notes telling her “good night and I love you” sometimes they were longer. My sister and I used to sneak and clean the house while she slept (in those days she was a much heavier sleeper and we were night owls) and I’d leave her a note.

When I went to college they were mailed but fewer and less frequent. If she wanted to send me some money she’d fold it up and put it in an envelope. But she always felt weird about just sending money. She always said she loved me.

She’s been in the hospital since January 3rd. It’s her lungs and they won’t release her until she’s breathing better, which is difficult considering all her issues. But she’s doing better.

She said something, that first night. She said she’d never smoke again.

The emergency room doctor wanted to intubate her. He said she’s struggling to hard to breathe that she’s slowly wearing herself out, and eventually she’s be too tired.

She was less than thrilled. She’s been incubated before and almost didn’t come off it. So they tried something else this time, a bipap (cpap?). The doc said it was a “long shot” and if it didn’t work, then we’d have to go the other way.

Luckily it worked. Though she’s still not where they’d like her before they send her home, she is doing much better and for that I’m grateful.

When my mom is sick she has stages, regardless of the illness, she goes from (1) knowing she needs to be there, (2) feeling better and getting hopeful she can leave soon, (3) getting antsy, (4) wanting something salty to eat, and (5) getting frustrated and wanting to leave ASAP.

She’s been through all these, though I think she’ll be stuck there a little longer. Right now, though, she’s missing my dad. He’s been sick himself with flu, and his just gotten to feeling good enough to go back to work. She hasn’t seen him since Tuesday the 2nd, excluding Wednesday morning and when she saw him for a few seconds when I picked her up to take her to the ER.

Though she’s close to me at her current hospital, I can’t see her everyday, between work and a sick toddler myself. But she knows I, as well as my sister, would be there every day if we could.

Tonight, before I got off the phone with her, she asked me to write her a letter. Because she hasn’t gotten one in a while. She also made sure to tell me to tell “her bug” she loved her, multiple times. Her Bug was running circles around the living room while holding my video camera. So we didn’t get much out of her.

But I got busy, like I always do, and didn’t get around to writing it. The only reason I have time to write this blog at 11:45pm is because I’m using my iPod and laying in bed.

But I will write my momma a letter, and I’ll fill it with whatever I think will make her smile, or feel better. Because I love making people happy, especially her.

-c

My Mom

05 Friday Jan 2018

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I am the mother of a three year old who amazes me every day.

I have written stories that people are actually excited to read.

I was the first person in my family to graduate college.

I’ve had the same job (and done well) for almost nine years.

And nothing has made me prouder recently than hearing my mom say “I will never smoke again.”

Granted she’s 61 and just now affirming it. And she had to feel like she was dying to say it. But she sounds sincere and determined, despite the C-PAP/BI-PAP/”scuba mask” machine on her face.

For years she has been fighting with smoking related issues (COPD, emphysema) gradually making her daily life more and more difficult. For decades we have begged her to quit smoking.

But it took another near death experience to convince her. I’m okay with that.

My mother has raised her own four kids, helped raise some of her eleven grandchildren, helped care for several more kids who were not her own. She’s a major part of so many lives and those lives would turn upside down if she were to leave us.

And if her quitting a 40+ year habit would only add a few years to her life, then, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure sure has all the support she needs.

I love you my momma.

-c