Tom Sonday

One thing that’s changed around here since Tom “left” is that animals are now allowed on the bed.  Mind you, they got on the bed when he was here, but they were smart enough to do it when he was sound asleep or elsewhere.  Now, they’re not only allowed, but this time of year, they’re encouraged.

Every night, if they’re not already sitting on me, I call for my “Animal Support Team” when I wander to the bedroom.  Shiloh the Dog and Melvin the (obese, lazy) Cat quickly assume their snuggling positions.

Yesterday I was chilled all day, so I definitely needed them in bed.  Shiloh escorted me to the bedroom, but Melvin (who spends 99.999% of his time sleeping on the couch) was a no-show.

I climbed in between cold sheets, and needed hefty Melvin for my right side, so I called again.  And again.  And again.

And a few minutes later he jumped up on the bed, dropping the mouse he was carrying on my chest.

I’m a farm girl, mice don’t bother me.  I was also cold and tired.  I scooped up the limp mouse in a tissue and deposited it in the bathroom trash, taking care to shut the door in case Melvin wanted him back.

I hopped back under the covers between the animals … and then I thought about what I’d just put in the trash — a very warm mouse.  It must’ve been just killed.

Or it was still very much alive and just napping …

While I appreciate that Melvin recruited a third member for the Animal Support Team, and Melvin was EXCESSIVELY pleased with himself for doing so, I started thinking about that potentially live mouse in my bathroom.  Sure, the door was shut … but if closed doors kept mice from entering the house, I wouldn’t have a mouse in my bathroom in the first place.

It was 11:35.  When it is too late to call neighbor Wayne?

I analyzed it as Melvin purring loudly on my chest.  If the mouse was alive and came out of the bathroom, I was protected (allegedly) by my bed buddies.  I listened for scratching but — as I said –  Melvin was purring loudly on my chest.  I fell asleep.

When I got up during the night, I used the bathroom down the hall.  I wasn’t ready to find a mouse perched on my toothbrush.

This morning I remembered the dilemma, and got neighbor Rose on the phone in case, when I opened the door, an enraged mouse flew at me swinging a razor.  Sure, I could’ve taken Melvin with me instead of the phone, but it takes a lot to carry Melvin, and if I had to throw him at the mouse, I’m not sure the floor would support it.

Dead mouse.  Whew.

I’m wondering which warm animals will show up when I go to bed tonight.

That’s actually the title of a book, recommended to me by my grief therapist.  I haven’t picked it up yet, but — I strongly recommend a grief therapist.

I saw this angel in my life on Monday.  I shared with her that when I’d mentioned to a small group that I was seeing a grief therapist, most of them looked at me with disbelief, and one even commented “Still?  It’s been five months!”

Yeah.  Sorry.

Not over it yet … but I’m grieving as fast as I can.

Sorry folks who think I should be moving along more quickly — I just don’t feel that’s possible.  I think the “one year” rule-of-thumb is very accurate — even if, like many of us, you knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later and thought you had somewhat prepared for it.  My grief seems to swell as I go through the many firsts, and hopefully after a year I’ll be through most of them. 

The “firsts” hurdles were high and thick throughout the holidays.  I’ve hurdled many more since then though.  An exceptionally high hurdle for me currently is the taxes.  “We” always had someone do them, but getting together the pounds of paperwork is a dazzling and overwhelming task.  Sorry Tommy — for not appreciating more that you did that!

For the most part, life is getting back to “normal,”  normal being a new normal.  Tommy the Night Owl always used to tuck me in and then do whatever he did late at night.  I know he sometimes dreaded tucking me in, because only after I’d climbed into bed did I remember that the cat needed to be fed, I needed to take a medication, my cell phone needed to be charged, the gallon of milk was still in the car, the laundry needed to go to the dryer, etc.  He’d always take on the task list, because once I climb in bed I find it almost impossible to rouse the energy to get up again.

The first few times I had to muster the energy to get up again, growl.  But, I’m getting better at remembering to charge my medications, take the cat out of the car, and put the milk in the dryer before I go to bed now. 

And, I no longer think “oh, I’m going to bed all alone.”  While I am, it is starting to seem normal.   I allow the dog in bed (not that she gives me much of a choice.)  When she snores, as Tom would do, she gets elbowed … like Tom did.   Melvin the 80# cat also joins us.  While the animals don’t pig the covers like Tom did, they lay tightly next to me atop of the blankets, sometimes pinning me down.  That’s fine for these chilly nights, but come summer I may need to remind them who is really in charge around here (Melvin, it’s NOT you.)

There have been a few times recently, when I’m tired and not thinking clearly, that the thought passes through my head that it is time to get back to normal:  the hoopala of holidays is over, the kids are back to where they go, it is time to return to the way it used to be … and then I am jolted by the thought that I can’t get back to the way it used to be.

While that has deeply and forever wounded my heart, I rarely have a pity party when I’m reminded of the reality.  I’ve learned the same “peace” that my Mom, who also died of cancer, once explained to me.  I’d asked her if she got depressed or frustrated with having leukemia — she always shrugged and said “it is what it is, you just got to keep going.”  I now better understand that.  I don’t like where I’m at in life — it certainly wasn’t part of the plan.  I know I need to envision a new future for me and start finding my way there, but I keep tripping over the hurdles and that keeps me from gaining much speed in moving forward.  But, it is what it is.

And I’m grieving as fast as I can.

I didn’t think it would hit me this hard.

Yesterday, because it was slightly sunny, and an unseasonable near-50 degrees here in Michigan, bee-buddy Rose and I visited the hives to see what was up with our sisters of the sting.  (For what bees doing in winter, a synopsis is way below.)

As we neared the hives, we were DELIGHTED to see bees.  At one hive, the golden insects were lined up for take-off just outside their door, not unlike the line outside the women’s bathroom at a sporting event.  At another hive there were 20 or 30 bees hanging out on the front step, no doubt inhaling fresh air and joyfully remembering what light looks like.  At a third hive they were taking short, slow, clumsy-shake-out-the-muscles flights and high-fiving each other.  Many of them landed on us, stumbled about a bit, flew to the other sleeve.  We laughed in delight that they were alive and enjoying the day.  Inter-species connectivity is so cool.

And at three other hives, there was no action.  Nothing.

With trepidation, Rose and I opened each lid ever so slightly and see what we could see.

What we saw wasn’t good — or was good — depending upon your perspective.  We saw dead bees, and lots of moisture, and lots of untouched honey.  Sigh.

The bee books say such attrition, while perhaps high, isn’t unusual — especially for first year hives.  There was no evidence of disease, vandalism, breaking and entering, or substance abuse in these hives.  Upon talking with my bee pimp Jane, I think these hives (that were weak entering the winter) just couldn’t survive the inevitable moisture build-up they create inside … compounded by living by a swamp.

Rose and I thought we were OK with the inches-deep dead bees.  Trying to find the positive, we had three hives still frolicking; we’ve learned alot (and are going to move the new, replacement hives to higher ground); there is beautiful honey the others have left behind to jump-start the new bees coming in April.  We try to find the blessings in things, and yesterday, with the slight sunshine and sweatshirt weather, there was the scent of spring and hope in the air and losing three hives of bees didn’t seem so bad.

That was yesterday.  Today it is below freezing with snowflakes spitting from the sky, a frigid, brisk breeze … and no sunshine, externally or internally.   I learned last week that some aspects of Tommy’s estate aren’t locked and loaded as I’d been led to believe, and that our (now ex) attorney hadn’t bothered to inform me of some key issues and deadlines.  I’m not the first widow to stupidly let her spouse handle everything and assume it was OK, and I’m not real angry at Tom about it.  First, because he’s not here and that doesn’t do any good, and second, because golly — he was spending all his energy fighting cancer and trying to make a quality of life under severe storm clouds.   With the storm gathering, I’m not blaming him for spending his final months planning his fantasy football strategy, reading Robert Parker books, and laughing with me.  It was my fault for trusting in a marvelous mind that had unfortunately already lost grasp of some important things.

So today, I cried about the bees.  I’ve had enough death in my life lately:  I really didn’t need 18,000 little bodies — whom I cared for and had great plans and hopes for — to clean out of their perfectly drawn honey comb.  What does one do with 18,000 dead bees anyway?  (BTW, they’d probably fill 3 gallon jugs, if you were wondering what 18,000 dead bees look like.)

I suspect the ample tears were for other things as well — other great plans that will never be, the estate document I thought was locked and loaded, and my own carefully crafted honey comb house full of stuff to be cleaned out … because my husband loved to buy things on Amazon, and could never throw anything away.

And I still have more blessings than dead bees — like a job, a car that starts (actually, two of them!), a house over my head, lots of caring friends and family.  Unlike the Haitians, much of my family is still alive and I think I know where my kids are, or at least I’ll assume they’re at the same colleges to whom I write the tuition checks.  Compared to so many other people, I have no problems.  But compared to so many other people, I probably had a lot more tears today — which happens.

And I think I have a lot more dead bees!

Background on wintering bees: They form a cluster in their hive which keeps the queen at 92 degrees.  The cluster ever-so-slowly feeds and moves across the stores of honey throughout the winter.  Bees are freaks about cleanliness, so they hold their waste in until spring, or until they have a chance to fly out (like yesterday) and relieve themselves.  There isn’t much a beekeeper can do to assist them over the winter, other than keep their doorway clear of dead bees so that airflow through the hive can happen — otherwise humidity builds up in the hive, and the dripping cold water kills them.  (Natural aging / bee death just happens throughout the winter.  Additionally, bees are fairly quick to escort any elderly, waning hive members to the chilly outdoor to preserve resources. ) I’ve been brushing dead bees from the doorways a couple of times a week since winter began, and keeping the bees’  front doors snow-free to ensure ventilation.

Last fall, when beekeeper Rose and I decided to offer up Tom’s honey for a contribution to one of Tom’s charities, Tom’s sister and Mom pitched in and helped knit / crochet scarves for all the plastic bears to wear.

(Because yes, plastic bears filled with honey need scarves.)

When each and every bear marched out of here and raised a couple thousand dollars for Meals on Wheels and Loaves & Fishes, I decided to manage more bees this year in the hopes of raising more $ in Tommy’s memory.

As I’ve investigated things in anticipation of more honey this year, I found larger plastic bears.  The way some people I know (Jon G, Barb K) go through Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey, I wish they offered gallon-size bears.  But, the larger plastic bears that hold twice the honey of the usual bears are menacing-looking enough because of their size, so perhaps they are large enough.

Sister-in-law Sooz agreed the larger bears look rather formidable, and joked (or so I thought) that we’d need to make hats and mittens for them to soften their appearance.

When I got home from work today, there was a package in my mailbox from my mother-in-law.   A picture is worth a thousand words:

Fourth from the left is a bear from ‘08 — one of a few bears I have left.  Like fine wine, Tommy and I saved the first bear of each season.

He’s the only one with honey.  All honey was donated this year, so I had to photograph the new, larger bears empty — but wanted to show what my mother-in-law sent me (along with the new size bears.)  The guy on the far left sports a billed hat, the other blue hat resembles a ski cap, the other bears are wearing bonnets.   My mother-in-law made matching scarves for each, but I didn’t dress them all … yet.  (Plastic bears filled with honey need scarves; empty bears do not.).  They don’t look menacing at all now, do they?! 

While these bears will look even better when they’re filled with golden-brown sweetness and there’s a flower or plastic bee attached to their hat, I’m interested in any feedback about preferred hat style, along with any prayers that we’ll have another bumper crop of honey to help feed those in need.

I hope those hats made you smile; they sure brightened my day.

Charlotte

The first email I opened this morning made me laugh out loud.  That unto itself is always a wonderful thing!

The email was from Janie, who has since retired from the company where we on occasion worked together.  Janie has a bottle of Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey.  I think she might have gotten it at Tom’s backyard visitation, but quite frankly — I don’t remember clearly much about the events surrounding his death.

The key thing is Janie has a tubby plastic bear of Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey, with her.  And “with her” means that the tubby bear is in Thibodaux, Louisiana, where Janie and Hubby go for several weeks each year, working on charitable building projects.  Space constraints dictate how much “stuff” she can take on her annual mission, and Tom’s honey made the cut.

I know this because of the pictures she sent, where if you look closely, you can find a well-dressed bear (minus a hard hat!) amidst the construction activities.

Janie shared that the young lady pictures is Kelley S. from Pittsburg, who is in an NCCC group from Americorp.  Salute Kelley, and all the rest of your co-workers, for what you do.  And thanks for holding the bear!

If you look carefully at the bear, you’ll see the bottom honey is much lighter.  Some honeys tend to crystalize over time — depending on many things like moisture content and the flowers involved.  Honey experts say that isn’t an issue; simply heat the honey to bring it out of that stage and it is fine for use and just as tasty.  I’ve noticed our spring honey tends to crystalize faster; it is also sweeter, so maybe those two things are related.

The bear looks sort of proud.  I’m not sure what role he played in home construction — maybe just keeping Janie’s morning coffee sweet?  Janie, it looks like you’ll be needing another bear, or bear full, of honey, in the near future.

Look me up come spring and we’ll make that happen.

Thanks for sharing the photos, and for getting Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey involved in a charitable organization.  He’d love that.

We live on a very large swamp (taxed as lakefront.)  Weather permitting, there’s an annual neighborhood celebration of Michigan winter atop the lake, called Winterfest.

Last year a neighbor, we’ll call him “Candle”, worked hours with his small tractor sculpting numerous skating and hockey rinks, and a lovely ice golf course.  The weather turned unusually warm the night before Winterfest, melting the snow atop the ice and leaving about six inches of water on it.  Winterfest 2009 was called off, and we all felt bad for Candle, who (along with others) had put in so much effort.

Undeterred by last year’s weather oddity, and shrugging off questions whether the ice was thick enough to be doing it yet, Candle and bright orange tractor spent several hours atop the lake yesterday clearing a lovely rink and paths.  He even took off today to polish it even more.

I had the morning off work, as I was having a hard time shrugging off the widowhood doldrums that have found me lately.   But, a knock at my door mid-a.m. made me realize I have no problems.  There’s always someone in worse shape than you are, and I’d just found him.  At my door was neighbor Candle.  He and his tractor had just broken through the ice at the swamp’s edge.  He was seeking permission to drive his Jeep through my yard to get next door to pull it out.

Permission — granted.  Camera — loaded.  Here’s what I found when I went down there:

John was still grinning at the time, fairly confident that he could get the rails under the front tires and pull it right out.

That didn’t work too well as the swamp, er lake, has a very soft bottom.  John then did what I do when I’m in a pinch; he called 1-800-Wayne.

Wayne came home for lunch, and the two of them got the rails in place … sort of.  Things kept shifting and it was difficult to keep the wheels straight.

But, they finally got everything in place.  Well, almost.  John was turning the Jeep around to get more pulling power when it slid into the soft, soggy ground that’s on either side of the path.

We then spent over an hour dislodging that vehicle, which involved shoveling, rails, muscle, rocking, and John reminding the vehicle that it is a Jeep and it never gets stuck on TV commercials.  BTW, I salute John and Wayne for keeping a great sense of humor through what was a day of setback after setback, like …

… when the tow strap broke, about 3 p.m.  It was then John commented that Tommy is clutching his side in heaven because it hurts so much from laughing at us helpless mortals here on earth.

With only a couple of hours of daylight left, John called a tow truck, and I called my nephew Jay who’s incredibly handy and capable.  We figured whomever could get here first would get the job.

Both parties got there about the same time, and then spent some amount of time surveying the situation and shaking their heads.  The initial plan – to pull with a cable from the tow truck — slid away like Candle’s Jeep, because the cable wasn’t long enough to snake down the steep hill.

The team conferred, and figured Jay’s truck could pull it out as the tow trucks (there were now three of them) couldn’t drive across my yard, but Jay’s truck allegedly could.  If Jay’s truck got stuck, well, the tow trucks figured they could pull it out.  Good thing both parties showed up at the same time, as both parties were needed.

Pictures are worth thousands of words, but they don’t show the numerous times the jack slipped off the icy boards and into the lake as they tried to jack up the front tires, the chain-sawing of the dock to get it out of the way, the precarious configuration of 2 x 4s criss-crossed to provide leverage, or the group of guys teeter-tottering on 2×4s extended over logs as they tried to lift up the tires enough to get the rails under them.

I left about 6; it was too dark to take pictures and it didn’t look very promising.

I should’ve stayed!  Fifteen minutes later nephew Jay let me know that they’d gotten the tractor out.  He was going to stop in for dinner and to get warm.

When he hadn’t shown up by 6:30, I looked out my back window.  Jay’s truck was stuck on the left of my yard; the tow truck was busy backing into position on the right of my yard.

Shortly after 7 my very cold (and very tall) nephew burst in my front door.  His truck was free, but he had some place he needed to be.  I gave him several slabs of ham just out of the oven, which he downed like my dog does — without chewing.  When you’re 20 years old, have spent the afternoon in the cold, and stand 6′7″-ish, you can pack in a lot of food quickly.

Tomorrow, when the sun comes out again, I’ll update with a photograph of the tractor now on dry land.  And meanwhile, I’ll count the blessings, like that no one was hurt, that I live in a neighborhood that will pitch in to pull you out of a swamp or the doldrums, and that I don’t have any leftover ham.

After my Mom’s death in 2005, my siblings and I were overwhelmed / amused / befuddled / surprised / shocked / grateful by her life’s accumulation of stuff.  Excavating through it invoked (waaaay too many) “what was she thinking?!” moments, as well as some heartfelt ones as we discovered items she’d obviously obtained but had never gotten around to giving them to us or the grandchildren she cherished.

Mom was also a quilter, which is a problem because she was “blessed” with raising four giraffe-like daughters on a limited budget in a rural area.  She sewed most of our outfits, and saved every scrap for “someday.”  We had to deal with those thousands (truly) of small pieces of cloth — many of them went to quilters found via freecycle.org who are undoubtedly saving them for … someday.  (Ba ha ha)

My Dad has similar save-the-broken-shoelace tendencies, so I’m hoping he lives forever, or at least longer than I do, so I can avoid that fun (rolls eyes.)

So yes, I come from a looooong line of pack-ratness.  And I married one.

I’ve spend many of the recent single-digit-artic-blast days going through more of Tom’s stuff.   When you find three (!!) doorbell kits (and mind you, the doorbell here hasn’t worked for years), you have to finally just laugh.  What was he thinking?

And all of that got me thinking — what would my kids crack up over if they had to suddenly go through my vast collections of precious treasures?  Would they appreciate the headless oriental doll eraser (which is too dried up to erase) that I’ve had since 5th grade?  Probably not.

And so, with the same discerning attitude, I plowed through a spare bedroom of my stuff this weekend.  The single left mitten that my Mom had almost finished, out of red scratchy wool, for a child with very skinny, very long hands (er, just one hand)? (I think I know why she never finished it.)  I actually let it go.

Every receipt for my significant yarn collection?  My yarn bin, and now my paper recycle bin, overflowth.

There are many things–of both mine and Tom’s–that are of sentimental value only to us, and, um — one of us isn’t here any longer.  Some things I’m not ready to trash or recycle yet, so they’re in marked boxes piled in another spare bedroom.

I don’t need the room–the house is waaaaay too large.  But, I need to clear out the stuff.  Another widow recently shared that her doing so made her feel “a whole lot lighter.”  Coming out of the fudge holidays, I’m ready to do anything to feel a whole lot lighter!

She wrote:  “In some ways it has been difficult to change things, to take down his pictures, other things he treasured, that represented his desires and loves, admitting that, while I appreciated his, they were not mine.  And I decided to live my life, not to continue his.  That was a huge thing for me, as for 50-some years, his possessions had dominated my life.”

I’m going to try and follow her advice of living my own life, not continuing my spouse’s, although I will continue our mutual interests.  (More of that in a forthcoming exciting blob.)

This widow’s daughter has been impacted by her Dad’s collection of stuff, and watching her Mom have to deal with it.  She shared that she realizes “… marriage involves a lot of compromise(s) and one of those seems to be putting up with the other person’s stuff.  And Hubby’s stuff doesn’t necessarily make sense to me (and presumably, vice-versa.)”

That’s one of the hidden blessings of widowhood — you don’t have to put up with the stuff that doesn’t make sense to you!

Meanwhile, assuming my “get rid of it” attitude sticks, my children should thank me now for purging stuff for them (along with birthing them, doing their laundry, sewing eyes back on their stuffed animals, etc.)  Kids, you’ll never know the burden of sorting through the box of outgrown, cracked leather, rusted ice skates including the one chewed up by the dog 15 years ago, and the partially used flashbulb collection (you don’t even know what flashbulbs are!), etc.) — so you have no idea what a gift I’ve given you by doing so.

But, having done this for Mom and now for Tom, I know the value of the gift.  So kids, send me your gratitude, endless appreciation and love!

Just don’t send me stuff!!

Well, we made it through the holidays, and I’m delighted to admit it wasn’t that bad.

SO MANY people had told us that it wold be the worst holidays ever.  I’m not so sure about that, for a couple of reasons …

First, as I said at Tommy’s eulogy (at his request), the fear of the event is often much worse than the actual event.  So, while I was waiting for everything to come crashing down, it did not.  We had plenty of tearful moments, but we didn’t do anything that we normally do, so there wasn’t the glaring vacancy of Tom in the traditions because we didn’t do them.

In many ways, because I’m a pre-worrier, I think last year’s Christmas was equally hard — but in a different way.  Last year I was fearful that it would be our last holiday with Tommy, and I didn’t know how to stop time and savor what we had.  In my mind everything was framed by “this will likely be our last …” and I allowed that to rob me of some of the moments we had.  Plus, Tommy was undergoing chemo, which delivers its own version of hell.  So, last year I had fear of what was likely to come permeating everything … this year I “just” had dealing with everything, which at least is something that can be chewed through, although sometimes only a small bite at a time.

One thing that helped me immensely was a book my grief therapist recommended, called When A Lifemate Dies (Heinlein, Brumett, Tibbals).  I read it in three sittings, and would’ve probably devoured it the first night but knew I had to get some sleep if I hoped to hold my own against the kids in our daily Scrabble game.  (Who knew “cyme” was a word??!!  (Becca did.))

There’s a passage in one of its essays that totally resonated with me, so I’m sharing it in case it helps others.  It is from Rondi Lightmark:

“Everywhere I go these days, I meet or hear about someone struggling with or dying of cancer.  There is a battle waged, but I remember well that point when the battle metamorphoses and the terrain becomes pregnant with stillness, peace and possibility.  Love emerged, both in the warrior and in those companions who have helped hold the sword.  Those who find some key to unlock a door into new life here, find they have acquired a brimming, transformative energy that comes from the conquering of fear:  energy which cannot be held, but must be shared.”

 That passage spoke to me because, while Tom was likely fearful of dying at times, I can’t say that I ever recall him voicing that fear.  (Fear of needles and blood pressure cuffs?  That’s a different story!)

As far as I know, Tommy never felt sorry for himself for getting cancer, and didn’t kick himself for ignoring for so long the clear signs of something gone awry … back when it was likely much more treatable.  In a calm acceptance that I hope to learn, Tom always said “it is what it is” (except for needles and blood pressure cuffs) and we moved forward from there.

With that acceptance we found that huge, transformative energy that made our relationship with each other and so many other people and things spectacular.

The essay continues:  “…if I meet someone new to the kind of pain and process I have been through, there is always an element of excitement in me, strange to say.

‘Wait,’ I want to say.  ‘Watch and stay open because amazing things will come your way.  More love and grace than you ever would have dreamed possible …’”

That was so true for us.  And, as I talk to other cancer survivors and their support people, I see how they are changed by the amazing grace and love previously unrecognized.  I know I’ve been.  It is an exclusive club, not one that I’d wish on anyone, but one that changes its members.

And the essay continues …

“You’ve been given a life with a big bump in it.  Use it to get up really high so you can see far, then jump off and fly.  Something wonderful will hold you.  And if, by chance, a big wind gets too full of itself and throws you down, say, a chimney, and you have to spend lifetimes flopping and crawling through smoke and soot in the dark, know this:  someone will open the door.”

A special thank to all of you who keep opening the doors when I’m flopping about in the dark.

Charlotte

My father-in-law shared this breaking news from the Associated Press last night:  A Bakersfield, Calif., airport was temporarily shut down Tuesday after officials said a passenger’s luggage tested positive for TNT. The suspicious material turned out to five bottles filled with honey.

I’m pretty sure that none of Tom’s bee-loved honey in cute bears with scarves were imitating terrorist activity … hopefully!

One of the delights of having kids in college (other than paying tuition and a bazillion dollars for a text book that’s outdated in three weeks) is the friends they make and bring home.  Faithful blob readers may recall seeing Bec’s friend Dov, from the University of Michigan, in his bee-shirt.  Dov had picked up a few more for friends and family.

Dov was recently in Tel Aviv, and shared this report:  “my aunt from Hertzliya sent my 12 year old cousin, Nuri, to visit me for a few hours. He got out of the taxi and lo and behold, this is what he was wearing.”

Thanks Dov!  That was wonderful to see — both the happy young lad in sunshine and sand, and that the magic of Tom’s bees continues to work its way around the world.

Tommy was proud of me last night:  I hosted our annual NYE party.

And, after a late afternoon seriously-missing-him-why-am-I-doing-this crying spell, I had a grand time.

Why did I do it?  In no particular order …

It gave me a deadline to get Tom’s “man-cave” whipped back into shape (this is the room that was repaneled, recarpeted, repainted, etc. due to the flood) — as that room is where the party is centered.

We’ve hosted this party every year for as long as any of us can remember.  Having the party seemed like less energy than having to figure out something else to do!  (However, I didn’t realize how hard at times it was going to be.  Sigh.)

Hosting the kid-centric party was a way to thank my many awesome neighbors who have helped me so much since Tommy died … as this house is a very family-friendly venue.  (I’ve had a “wrestling mat” outlined in blue painting tape on the living room floor for nearly three weeks now, courtesy of Rose’s boys.)  The houseful of little neighborhood kids gladdens my heart, and allowed me to be kissed countless times around midnight, although for most of the kisses I either needed to bend over quite far, or pick up the giver, to receive them.

The party was different — a much smaller guest list, a less rowdy crowd, no Tommy beaming from his captain’s chair behind the bar as the chaos swirled around him, no huge clean-up the next day (thanks neighbors!).  Seeing the dozens of shoes inside the front door (many of them girls’ sparkling, pink, four-inch tall boots fairly useless in the eight inches of snow we have), and the usual cascading pile of coats (again, many of them shades of pink) in the hallway invoked many memories of years before, and many tears.  But, this tradition is a part of my history, so I had to find a way to live with it more comfortably.  That’s happening, as last night we put new twists on an old tradition — like the non-stop wrestling tournament.

The evening wasn’t tear-free.  Nor was it problem-free:  the carpet suffered its first spill (an ADULT) and (gasp!!!) everyone brought snacks, but no one brought chocolate. 

At the end of the evening, I thanked my brother-in-law for coming, especially since he’d admitted this was not how he wanted to spend his NYE.

“No — thank you instead!” he responded.  “Because this was exactly how I wanted our kids to spend NYE.”

His sentiments were a common denominator among guests, who happily traded elegant cuisine and a romantic evening for hotdogs and bean dip (but no chocolate!) while their kids wrestled merrily.   I’m surrounded by fantastic family and friends, and I know, that while 2010 will have its challenges, they’ll work to make it a happy new year.

We’re off to a good start.  Other than of course, that chocolate issue …