Pieces of the Day

Saturday, October 29, 2011

The doings of the day drain us reminding us of the space that is vacant.

The house is quiet save for the humming of the refrigerator.  Bright late afternoon sunlight filter through the window where I positioned the ironing board this morning.  Mom is asleep.  I sat with her and held her hand as tears welled behind closed lids.  Dad had a bad dream one night, she told me.  He didn’t want to talk about it.  Perhaps he knew more than they did of what was coming, she said.  

Perhaps.

It is autumn here.  The timber behind the house is vibrant with colors.  Near the front drive is a tree swathed in yellow.  This is a magnificent season.  The flowers that draped Dad’s casket were red gerbera daisies and another flower with layers and layers of petals that fanned tight and compact like a powder puff, yellow tiger lilies, roses and orchids and peach roses.  I had suggested we do an arrangement using fall colors.  A lady at Mom’s church created the arrangement and donated it to us.

Tuesday, October 25, when I landed at the airport, I felt the hand of reality press on my shoulders.  It wasn’t heavy, but I knew its touch.  When Matt, my brother, stepped out of the vehicle and came around to greet me, I cried.  I cried, too, as Mom held me.  Kevin and Susan, friends from my mother’s church, took us to Houlihan’s to eat before we left the city.  We often stopped there as I flew out or flew in to the city.  Dad would take us, and he knew where to go.  We passed the booth where we normally sat.  Lunch was at first awkward.  I was acquainted with Kevin and Susan when I attended Mom’s church, but I did not know them very well.  Perhaps also the news of Dad’s passing was still fresh and we were working on getting acclimated to it.  Every now and then Mom would call out to him mournfully as to why he left her. 

Life is not always filled with certainty.  We expect one outcome only to find that what transpired was not according to plan.  I wanted very much for Dad to be restored in his body, for him to walk again and do those things he had always done.  He had become so frail and thin.  Only a miracle could raise him.  

We grieve because he is not tangibly here.  We grieve because he did not gain back the weight he lost.  We grieve because he did not get to walk again and do those things he longed to do.  There is a vacant space in the house.  The hospice bed that was positioned next to the French double doors that led to the deck is no longer here.  The bottles of medicine that crowded the kitchen counter are gone.  As is the wheelchair.  As is Dad.

I did cry because of the suddenness of it all.  But I take comfort in knowing that he is no longer imprisoned in a broken body.  That was the saddest part, to see him, who for as long as I’ve known him was so strong and independent, frail and unable to do things for himself.  Knowing that he is free is a relief.  I will miss him; I do miss him, but as my brother so aptly said, he lives on inside us.  

We stopped at the funeral home.  We had to decided on the service, when it will be, the flowers, who will speak, who will sing, who will be the pallbearers.  We had to pick a casket, choose between a box or a vault, select the program and thank you cards and swallowed hard once the total was tallied.  

We chose a beautiful casket of warm wood. 

That evening Mom asked if she could sleep in the same room with me.  She said she would sleep on the floor.  No such thing, I declared.  She will sleep in the bed.  In the middle of the night, I balanced between the state of sleep and wakefulness.  Pieces of the day lay afloat on the surface so that I was conscious of where I was, but when I felt something next to me that was not a part of my body, I swat at it.  It did not leave, and by this time I panicked, swatting more vigorously.  Only when Mom spoke did I remember she was beside me.

Dad & Matt

Pictures of the Past

Today promised to be a full one as we nailed down the last of the details.  We needed to be at the funeral home to give the director pictures we had selected of Dad to be shown in the presentation before the service.  There were a lot of good ones.  There was one of him as a baby; he had super chubby cheeks.  Another one of him when he was six or seven holding his baby sister like he would a large bowl of salad.  There was one of him with his brother and some cousins, all of whom were lanky with wind blown hair and lopsided grins.  There was one of him in the 80's with his brother and sister and their spouses and little children on the beach in Mexico.  They drove from the States to Mexico the day after Christmas.  Then there is the wedding picture and the one of him holding my brother as a toddler while riding the lawn mower.  My favorite one is of him waving while we were in Oregon in 2010.  He had a happy smile, and he wore a straw hat.  That one will be the last picture shown.

 

Later in the afternoon we went back to the funeral home to view the body.  I entered the room with trepidation.  As his body lay in the casket I am amazed by the fact that he didn't look like the dad I have stamped on my memory.  The dad that I remember was strong, vibrant, sometimes ornery and can fix anything.  That is the memory that I will hold on to.

 

Tomorrow is the funeral.   I am typing this as my mother irons her dress, and my brother's closest friend is playing the piano.  Our minds are so full, our bodies so tired.  Mom wants my brother and me to say a few words regarding Dad during the service tomorrow.  I told my brother he should tell the story when Dad demonstrated how to swing like Tarzan from a tree vine.  My brother was five years old at the time, and after the second demonstration the tree vine broke and so did Dad's leg.  It was not a happy moment at the time, but our family still gets a kick out of hearing that story.

 

Good night, world.  Good night, Dad.

 

 

The Day

The words I did not want to hear were spoken today.

 

My mother called me at 4:30 a.m. and told me that Dad had passed away. 

 

It happened too soon; we did not expect it so.  I cried until my head hurt.  A dear friend came over to be with me while I gathered my thoughts.  Then it was time to plan.  I called the airline, purchased a ticket, made coffee, and packed.  Within hours we were out the door headed to the airport.  As I sat on the plane, I kept my head turned towards the window.  Occasionally a tear or two would slip.  Dad's passing was like the gunshot at a race signalling the start of many changes that will take place rapidly.  Just the thought of seeing my family at the airport induced more tears.  

The day became progressively more challenging as we made preparations for the funeral.  Oh my god, it was almost overwhelming.  Just when it got too much for Mom, I stepped in with the decisions.  When it got too much for me, my brother stepped in.  But you know what, even the funeral director contributed.  He gave us the sign-in book, the memorial cards and the thank you cards for free.  He asked me which collection would I choose.  I picked the one with the painting of Thomas Kincaid's garden steps.  I could image Dad walking again and going up those steps to a place far grander.  Once I told the director my preference, he then said he wanted to give us the set at no charge.  That brought more tears to my eyes.

This evening the aunts and uncles came over with their treasure troves of pictures.  We scoured through photos and laughed, retelling familiar stories and remembering ones we had forgotten.  It helped Mom to have many people at the house.  Now that everyone has left, reality reminded her of what took place much earlier today.  She will get through it.  We will get through it.  But it will take time.

Rest in peace, Dad.  I'm here...but it's not the same without you.  I love you.

A Tale of Strange Children

Book Club Night.

We met at a member's house in a nondescript town.  Were it not for the newly resurfaced Main Street, one would have thought time looped in the past.  That was what our hero in this month's book club discovered: a strange land populated by a bunch of peculiar children who lived in a time loop that brought back the same day over and over.  

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs

The book caught my attention with it's first two lines.

"I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen.  The first of these came as a terrible shock and, like anything that changes you forever, split my life into halves: Before and After."

We discussed the book and its peculiarities over bowls of chili.  Neither of us had any affection for Miss Peregrine.  We also thought the idea of incorporating vintage photographs and weaving them into this quirky tale was brilliant.  

The story could be just simply that, a journey from reality as we know it to the fantastical.  Or perhaps it also spoke of inner courage, accepting one's and others' peculiarities as well as facing one's worst fear and conquering it.  A member pointed out that it also touched upon whether or not concealing the truth in order to protect someone is a worthy course of action.  By doing so one suppresses another's freedom to chose for himself/herself and in effect stunts the other's maturity.

If you are looking for a good and entertaining read for the month of October (this book is perfect for October), I highly recommend Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children.

Biscuits

Sunday morning she slips out the front door at half past eight.  Mist still lingers.  A low fog obscures the feet and  walking paths.  She strolls to the corner, past the bust stop and the barber shop.  At the green and white striped awning she turns in, touches the brass knob and enters.  

Buttery warmth greets her.  The air is infused with cinnamon.  She chooses a table next to the window.  A place where she can sip tea and stare at the world.  With her pen and notebook next to her elbow she orders biscuits.  Her heroine bakes biscuits every Sunday morning.  But why does the heroine bake biscuits?  Perhaps today she will discover the reason.  Perhaps it reminds her of what has been, an endeared childhood memory.  Perhaps it proves she is afraid of change, thus making biscuits an anchor of stability.  Or perhaps she is compelled to bake them for the sheer love of biscuits.

She pours her tea and stirs in sugar.  A light drizzle stains the window.  A bright orange candy wrapper scuttles down the street.  On the other side a young woman tucks her wallet under her jacket and unfolds the morning paper to cover her head.  Her black-heeled boots look wobbly on her chopstick legs.  She hurries after the candy wrapper.  The drizzle is now a steady rain, smearing the world like a blotched watercolor painting.

The biscuits arrive with a small glass bowl of jam.  She refills her tea and thinks.

A hairy night had past, complete with howling winds and boiling waves.  The next morning was calm enough, though still no sunshine.  The clouds paused their onslaught of spewing rain.  It left a chill in the air that grabbed the heart and quickened the pulse.

But what about the biscuits?

She sliced one in half splitting it open, releasing a pocket of steam.  The aroma of butter, baking powder and cream lingered before her nose.

It was the biscuits that brought Margie fame. It was the fame that brought Julian that one Sunday morning.

She slathers jam onto a slice.  

Who is Julian?

Quick Skillet Marinara Sauce

With the day behind me I opened my pantry and contemplated a box of pasta.  Inspiration hit and I knew then what to make for dinner.

INGREDIENTS

Box of angel hair pasta

Package of grape tomatoes (cut in half)

Half a sweet yellow onion (diced)

Six fat cloves of garlic (chopped)

Dried oregano

Dried rosemary

Salt & pepper

Olive oil

...

This morning I jotted down a few things regarding frustration.  Advice that I would give to myself and pass along to my children.  

Do not fester in frustration.

That is time wasted.  Channel that energy to do, plan or contemplate something positive.  

When you surrender your morning to negativity then you have just relinquished control of your day.  By control I do not mean the ability to prevent all mishaps, accidents and anything else you did not plan.  What I do mean is the control you have over your outlook and expectation you set for the day.

Frustration is manipulative.  Things, people, circumstances, happenstance may all zap you with it; but only you can give frustration its power to affect you.

Shake it off.  If frustration is caused by something you cannot change, why waste any more time or energy on it?  Let it go.

Set a course for yourself.  Begin with when you wake up in the morning.  Determine not to let the petty stuff deter you.  Your day and well-being is too precious for that.  Set a good intention for your day.

You are alive, and this new day is full of possibilities and creative ideas.  Do not allow frustration to mark you, rather leave a mark of purpose and joy.

...

Mid-morning I texted my friend: I am quite happy today.

She replied: Enjoy happiness!

That piece of advice to shake frustration off made a difference.  I felt more alert and energized.  As a result I was able to focus on projects and enjoy my work.  

AND...dinner was DELICIOUS!

PREPARATIONS

Heat oil in skillet over medium heat.  

Sauté onions and garlic until onions become fragrantly sweet and golden.  

Add tomatoes.  

Season with oregano, rosemary, salt and pepper.  

Cook until the tomatoes melt.  

Spoon sauce over a bed of angel hair pasta.  Add some grated parmesan cheese.

  

Thwarting Frustration...with a Hamburger

Yellow.

I intensely like the color.

It reminds of autumn and golden leaves, warm summer sunshine and happiness.

Courtesy of National Geographic

Courtesy of National Geographic

To me YELLOW is HAPPINESS.

Courtesy of Tiffanys

Courtesy of JessicaIllustration on Etsy

Do you ever feel frustrated at times for not being able to write what you want to write?  There's a million things running and shoving inside you to be expressed, but somehow you're not able to type it out.  Sometimes I feel so boxed in.  So hampered.  I can't write what's on the surface, because people don't want me to write about it.  No, it's not confidential information.  It's things that I'm dealing with, going through, processing.  I could write vaguely about it, but it would be just that: VAGUE.  

So here I am, sitting before my computer, racking my brain to write about something when the thing that is so before me cannot be mentioned.  I guess I could write about frustration.  

No, I'd rather not.

I could tell you about Friday.

Early afternoon Friday, after completing work and a round of errands I craved a hamburger--not just any hamburger, a specific one.  Let me preface by saying only on rare occasions do I crave a hamburger.  This happened to be one of them.  

The day was gloriously sunny, and even though it was after the noon hour traffic was pretty thick.  Perhaps the population decided to take a personal day and enjoy this last taste of lingering summer weather.  Kincaid's was not on my errand route.  The craving persuaded me to go the extra mile.  

Upon arrival I almost turned around and abandoned the idea.  The parking lot was completely full.  Granted, a massage parlor and a nail salon shared the strip the restaurant was located, but I've never seen it so busy.  Then again I never visited the establishment on a golden Friday afternoon.  Usually my friend and I would stop by during the middle of the week, and we had not been back in a long while.  That day, however, I noticed there was a back parking lot.  Well, in that case I decided to stop.

Inside was not at all busy as the full lot had me believe.  There were no people standing in line at the counter to order food.  Families and couples were already seated at tables happily dipping their fries in ketchup and wiping their mouths.  I ordered my favorite, a junior bacon cheeseburger with everything but lettuce, and  a side order of French fries.  Within minutes I had a bag in my hands ready to feast...at home.

A Night of Accidents

The line of cars at the intersection was unusual at that time of the day.  I slowed down and stopped singing along with my radio.  Flashing red and blue lights appeared from a police vehicle.  A policeman directed traffic.  A semi and another automobile blocked the road.  

I had completely lost track of time this afternoon.  Engrossed in a project, I did not realize 5 p.m. had come and gone.  On my way home I stopped by the mailbox. Traffic began to thin out after I got off the highway.  I turned down the street that led to my home when again I saw flashing red and blue lights.  Two of the three lanes were blocked off by police vehicles.  Bits and pieces lay scattered on the road.  An officer walked from one piece to another measuring and taking pictures.  As I got closer I could see more police vehicles.  Two blocked the road, two SUVs were parked in the median and more were on the other side.  

And there it was.  An upside-down SUV or minivan.  Its front completely crushed.

It has now been a few hours since I've arrived home.  Thunder booms in the distant sky.  Several nights ago lightning struck a massive tree limb.  It blocked a turn lane.  When I returned home from work the next afternoon, the tree was gone.  They had cut it.  All of it.  How sad.

Often I think about the people I love the most and the lyric from one of the songs on Moulin Rouge comes to mind.

How wonderful life is now you're in the world.

Don't you agree?  Life is more wonderful because the person you love is part of your world.  

It is not common for me to see more than one accident in a day.  The second one looked bad.  I pray for all parties involved.  My heart goes out to them.  

I don't like morbid thoughts.  I don't like to think about how fragile life is.  

With passing days there have been regrets

I wish to eliminate them

one by one

Surprised by Daisies

There upon my desk were the brightest, happiest flowers.

"Good Morning!"

I blinked.

"Surprise!"

"Oh my goodness." I couldn't help myself; I felt a big smile stretch across my face.

"Are you happy to see us?"

"Indeed.  Very much."

"We wanted you to have a good day.  See, we wore our vibrant colors."

"You look splendid. I shall enjoy your company very much."

Later this afternoon the newest additions to my (office) family arrived.    

Yippee!  One more day and then the weekend.

Getting Updated

I awoke to a Symphony by Rain.  A couple blocks down from my home a massive tree limb got severed.  

Morning sky from the office

There's so much I wanted to write.  Now that I sit before the screen my mind goes blank, as if shrugging, "Uh, I don't know.  What do you want to write about?"  

On my way home from work tonight I didn't mind the traffic.  Towards the end of the afternoon something took a turn for the better.  Last week I had trained 2/3 of our office staff to use a new project management software.  People are finally testing the water and using it.  I also finally got an upgrade on hardware.  Got to love nonprofit organizations.  After three years I've finally graduated to the Snow Leopard operating system (Apple just released an update to Lion today).  Ah, but now I have a laptop that I can take home with me.  Translation: now I can work from home on snow days.

The best news is the one from my mother.  She called me as I was still driving.  Today she had an appointment with a doctor, a specialist in another town.  The end result was that it wasn't as bad as what we had thought.  The doctor was able to take care of the situation right there in his office.  To hear the outcome was such a relief.  Thank God!  

Let's not take for granted the good news each day brings.  Sometimes it is more challenging to find the good bits in the midst of accumulating bills, tight deadlines, ominous circumstances...and the blues.  Ever get one of those blues-y days?  They're the pits!  So, how do you remedy yourself out of the blues?  With me it's a combination of things; distraction works the best.  Comedy, good food, good book, good friend.  Speaking of food, during today's production meeting I ruminated about tonight's menu.  Yes, normally I would feel guilty about letting my mind wander during a meeting, but the meeting itself had wandered.  Talapia and a slaw salad was what I had sketched for my grocery list.

Once I arrived at the grocery store I took off the cute high heels and slipped on some nondescript oh-so-comfortable Clark's.  It absolutely did not match my outfit, but my feet were happy.  Then I when I got home I dawdled a bit before I finally got cooking.  In an hour's time dinner was ready, and by then I was HUNGRY.

Happy Friday Eve!

Grocery List

Bag of frozen Talapia filets

Bag of Idaho potatoes

Bag of broccoli slaw

Bottle of Asian sesame dressing (which I am quite excited about)

Bottle of Pinot Grigio

Menu

Broccoli Slaw with Asian Sesame Dressing

Roasted Potatoes with Rosemary

Skillet Fried Talapia with Minced Garlic

Wine Pairing

The Naked Grape California Pinot Grigio

Prepped potatoes ready for the oven

Let's uncork and ENJOY!

Voi-la!
Roasted potatoes drizzled with olive oil and seasoned with rosemary

Very thrilled by this dressing

Happy Dinner

Oh, how I loved this song when I was little!  My mother bought me the soundtrack on cassette and every night I would play this song over and over as I tumbled and did somersaults on her bed.  What a feeling!

Somewhere...

The first time I flew on an airplane I was five.  I wore a brand new blue dress my mother bought for the trip.  

I still prefer a window seat.  Once we ascend into the clouds I love staring out the window and getting lost in my thoughts.  

It seems easier to do that on a plane than during an office break.  No matter where I go during break I am constantly aware that I am grounded to the office.  The scenery, the sounds, the faces are all reminders of my location on earth.

Sometimes there is no escape being on the ground.  Rush hour traffic bottlenecks, and I'm among drivers who are more impatient than me.  We're all trying to get somewhere...and quickly.  

If I could be anywhere right now, right at this moment, I would be flying somewhere above the clouds.  Just for a moment...to be able to escape the ordinary...and view life from above.

Memories and Fried Rice

I like how the world smells after rain.  How after a busy day at the office I can come home to peace and quiet.

When I was little I would watch for my mother's car to pull into the drive way.  The sun would start to set.  By that time I had already finished eating, finished playing with the neighbor kids on our block.  Grandma would already have me bathed and dusted with baby powder.  Gradually the street lights and house lights would grow brighter as the sunset dipped lower.  Soon her headlights would illuminate the gate and glare into the window as she pulled up to the house.

My mother smelled of perfume and air conditioned office.  She would gather me into her arms and kiss me as I hugged her neck.  Grandma would serve dinner for the adults, and I would sit on my mother's lap while she ate.

Sometimes my mother reminisce.  Sometimes I think back at our old life in the old country.  Sometimes memories are kinder than reality.  

Growing up with my brother in America we would wait for Dad to get home before eating dinner.  Then we would ease into the evening.

Tonight, dinner consisted of staples that were already on hand.  Rice.  String beans.  Snow peas.  Red curry paste.  Tofu.  

I made friend rice by heating oil in a skillet with red curry paste.  Then I added two eggs and stirred in cooked rice with a dash of fish sauce.

Next I stir-fried the string beans and snow peas with a little oil and red curry paste.  Since I discovered the versatility of red curry paste about a year ago, I've used it in almost all of my rice dishes. 

Fried rice with stir-fried string beans and snow peas and
tofu marinated in soy sauce and sesame oil, coated with black pepper.

The fragrant smell reminded me of Grandma's cooking.  Her culinary skills put mine to shame.  She could cook authentic ethnic cuisine using an open flame in a clay cooking pot outside on the back porch.  Stove and ovens?  She didn't need them.  It's a shame she didn't record her recipes.  None of her children took interest in learning how she cooked.  

Here's to memories.  And here's to my mother: I love you.