Tom Sonday

A friend called me aside recently.

“Aside,” he said, “how often do you blob? I never know when to check ….”

As the answer is “I blob intermittently,” he, and others, may overcome the challenge of the unknown blob schedule by having updates sent to your email — that’s what that little “Subscribe to Tom Sonday via Email” link is all about in the upper right column.

Meanwhile, I didn’t blob last week because I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. (I think there’s a centipede dropping shoes, as about 75 have fallen this year.)

And — nothing fell! Nothing went wrong last week (at least of which I’m aware.) I’m very thankful for that; I’m not sure how much more I could’ve handled.

I’m chugging along. Luckily (rolls eyes) Tom left me with PLENTY to do. Combining the usual estate-settling / transition stuff with the house falling apart and I’ve been too busy, which “they” say is a good thing at this point.

Speaking of “they”, I have been meeting with a grief counselor provided by Hospice, and what a huge blessing. The death process is their business, and they have insights and suggestions that have been amazingly helpful. It’s like they’ve been through this millions of times and have all this collective knowledge on how to survive it.

Oh yeah — they have been through this millions of times.

While nothing has fallen apart in the house (of which I know anyway) in the last week, emotional shoes keep dropping. Today I discovered a new way in which I miss Tom. After trimming bushes, I came in and felt something tangled in my hair and trying to get out. I hesitated to touch it, thinking it might be a stinging insect. I’ve been stung alot this year and react to it badly, so that would be a bad thing.

Or, it could be a spider, which would be an even worse thing.

I thought about running across the street to have my neighbor help get it out, but that seemed like a silly thing.

Turns out that it was fortunately (rolls eyes) only a five foot beetle with six-inch fangs, which is plenty scary all on its own. And, by the time I had disentangled it, it had shrunk to like a quarter-of-an-inch, so it has scary magic powers.

If transportation systems cooperate, all the kiddos will be home for Thanksgiving. We have much for which to be thankful. Our continued closeness as a family, even though the head of the household is in heaven doubled over from laughter at watching me freak out about the bug in my hair, is one of my greatest blessings.

Thank you for being in our lives. (And for all the honey orders. Today I shipped 20 bears, and will be dropping off checks to Meals on Wheels and Loaves & Fishes appropriately.)

Charlotte and family

For those of you not at the service, here is our dad’s famous cheesy potato recipe straight from the email inbox (see below)! Through experimentation, we’ve found that Cheddar Jack Cheez-Its also contribute to this recipe’s greatness. In addition, we’ve also substituted veggie hash browns (such as Peppers & Onions Hash Browns, Ore-Ida makes them) for plain hash browns with incredible success.

Re: (no subject) Saturday, May 10, 2008 1:32 PM
From: Dad

1 30-32 ounce package thawed hash browns (I keep them frozen then nuke them on low at the last minute.)
1 8 oz container sour cream
1 can condensed mushroom soup (Campbell’s or equivalent, condensed is important)
3 cups shreaded cheddar
3/4 stick of butter
1.5 cups crushed cheezits or equivalent (adjust if you wish)

Thoroughly mix the first 4 ingredients, spread in a lasagna pan
cover with the cheezits
melt butter and pour evenly over all
bake at 325 for 75 minutes or until just slightly browned

That’s all!

xoxox

lub,

Dad

If you were at Tom’s funeral service, you may recall there was a recipe for cheesy potatoes in the funeral program. We had the space; Tom was an awesome cook; it seemed appropriate to include it.

Since then, I’ve received a couple fun comments about what we did with the recipe. It followed a verse of “How Great Thou Art” in the program, and one of my goofy friends claimed she didn’t realize where the song stopped and the recipe started, and sang “one 32-ounce package of thawed hash browns” when the rest of the congregation had stopped.

Another came today, when a co-worker shared: “I made Tom’s Cheesy Potatoes to take to a pot luck for my small group from church. They turned out great and were a big hit with everyone going back for seconds. I also told everyone a little about Tom and that he is the person who really deserves credit for the recipe. A toast was lifted in his honor. “

I’m glad that Tommy’s cooking talents are going on, out into the world. They’re sure missed around here!

Thanks all, for letting me know how Tom (and / or his potatoes) has touched your lives.

This hasn’t been a good year for me. In addition to my heart breaking, the following items have broken or required serious repair, all since Tom’s death:

My car
Furnace (that was Monday’s joy — there weren’t enough cats on the bed to keep me warm Sunday night)
A tooth (from stress-related clenching of my jaw, imagine that!)
Water pump (which leaked ruining two walls and the carpet in Tom’s office)
Mixer (not that I use it or any other kitchen appliance much)
Kitchen faucet (I was so amazed when it fell off in my hand that it took several seconds to notice the water shooting out)
Wheelbarrow
Telephone
Internet
Leaf blower (this one literally went up in smoke)
Dishwasher (it only gets run about once a week now, so it really can’t be tired)
Refrigerator
Ancient pontoon boat

Today workmen were tearing out the walls damaged by the pump issue, until they encountered wood they suspect had been a dining hall for termites. Whether the critter cafe was open a while ago or is still serving is beyond their knowledge, so I’m now waiting for a pest control person to visit. I hope he can find room to park in the driveway between Comcast’s weekly visit, the furnace repair guy, and the workmen tearing down the other walls.

But hey, I’m laughing. Perhaps a bit maniacally, but laughing nonetheless. Things in southwest Michigan really suck for lots of people — at least I’m blessed with a house where everything can go wrong.

And not everything has gone wrong (yet.) In making the list of what’s broken in just the last two months, I realized it may be faster to make a list of what hasn’t broken / gone wrong … yet.

“Plague of locusts” needs to be on the list; although I’m sure it is only a matter of time …

These bears of Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey went to Bill in Atlanta last week, in exchange for a $5 / bear contribution to one of Tom’s favorite charities. Because of the events below, more are available. If you’re interested, email me at primahub at aol.

Last week I errantly reported that three hives had mysteriously died. Yesterday Rose and I took advantage of a near record-setting 68 degree day to take apart, clean-up, and try and autopsy those hives.

Upon amateur bee-keeper analysis, we believe the first two hives perished because they didn’t have strong queens. There was no massive grave of dead bees in the bottom of the hive, showing their numbers just dwindled over time. And, there were numerous “queen peanuts” meaning both hives had tried to requeen on their own.

And the third hive? They came boiling out to greet us when we opened the top. They must’ve been hiding in the basement (playing their WII? I mean BEE?) when we checked them last week. (In our defense, it was quite chilly so we got in and out of each hive as quickly as possible.)

So, the great news is that we head into winter with six, not five hives that appear to be fairly strong. And, in finding the blessings of the two hives that have perished — we now have alot more of Tom’s honey available for a charitable contribution, and I have about 10 frames of golden honey to extract and bottle, which keeps me from missing Tom too terribly.

If I were randomly asked for attributes that describe me, at the top of the list most of the time would be “Mom.” And, 26 years ago this evening, this perfect little girl wriggled into the world, blessing me with that title.

I shot down to Hotlanta this week to visit her for a few days, a visit that had both pros and cons.

One “pro” is that she lives just down the street from Baskin-Robbins.

Or, maybe that’s a “con.” I finished my second quart is just over 48 hours last night …

On the “pro” side, I got to do what I came to Atlanta to do: see my beautiful baby girl. I’m slightly biased, but she’s running and working out and in love, and I don’t think she’s ever looked better since probably she was five, with the endearing cuteness of being scrawny with missing teeth and huge, brown, chipmunk eyes.

And, the “con?”

There is no one to share my parental pride with. Sure, there are relatives and friends who care for her completely, who also watch with wonder and appreciation the amazing woman she’s becoming. But, there’s no one person to say “remember when…” to — because the life partner who exchanged that bewildered glance with me when they handed her over to take home that morning in the hospital, the guy who also wore milk on every outfit for the first three months because she was a burp machine — he’s gone.

Yet, he’s so very present. There are pieces of him (and me) in each of our children, but the Tom runs strong in this one. Jessica has his love of office supplies, a seedling of his love of baseball, his ability to ask the tough questions about situations that were unclear which then clarifies them, his powerful stubbornness. Spending time with her both salved my hurting and sliced my wounds deeper as I discovered new ways of missing him. There are bazillions of people who care for her, but no one to uniquely confide in and take pride with over her accomplishments. And when I grow silent and distant in the midst of shopping or having dinner with her friends because the pain is too stinging, I can’t seek consolation in her. I’m missing my husband, but she’s missing her Daddy … and you only get one of those.

He’d be so proud of her — her organized apartment, her technological savvy, her self-discipline, her work ethic.

He wouldn’t show it easily or openly though. He always let the kids know the bar was even higher. Tough love, laced with long conversations late at night when I was snoring under cats, and his buying them stupid surprises that delighted them.

Tom was the best present acquirer — another trait Jess inherited from him, although she didn’t inherit the funds that would make it easier for her to use the trait!

I tried to acquire her good presents. We went shopping, which neither of us love, and Tom, er rather, his points-back-from-Discover-Card, bought her lovely sweaters. I got a matching sweater, because she channeled him and told me what I know he would’ve said “you hate to shop. You’re out doing it. If you find something you like just get it.”

Another “pro” was spending time with her boyfriend Travis and his daughter Haley. On her birthday eve dinner, we met them at a restaurant. Unbeknownst to all involved, Haley showed up in a nearly identical sweater to the one we’d just purchased for Jessica.

Coincidence? Maybe. I like to think it was Tom’s influence from beyond, to show his support of Jess’ strong, nurturing step-mother-esque-ness. The guy always did acquire the most amazing presents for those of us he loved.

And Skippy, he loved you beyond any possible limits … so much that we had more of you wailing, burping machines whom we also love unconditionally.

Happy Birthday Beautiful Baby Girl — from both of us, whom you proudly made your parents.

The blimp-like swelling from the yellow jacket sting of a week ago is now gone, and both my eyes are wide open. On this brilliantly sunny fall day in Michigan, it is good to see everything (clearly) again.

It was fairly amazing to me how large the right side of my face swelled; it is fairly amazing that it is all back to normal a week later. And, it is fun to run into people who saw it a week ago, because I love hearing “wow, your face looks great!”

As faithful blob readers may recall, none of our five beehives made it through the winter last year. Thus, this year Rose and I extensively researched how to winterize bees. We even had two planning meetings over breakfast at a local restaurant, and have coffee stains on our beekeeping books to prove it. Today was an almost-warm fall day. It was time to start to put the bees to bed for the winter.

One of the highly recommended winterizing acts is to drill a 3/8-inch hole in the second story of each hive for ventilation. Rose drew the short straw and got to pierce the side of the home of tens of thousands of stinging insects with a power tool. While we were both suited up, I’m a bit nervous around anything that buzzes these days, and thus stood back a little as she did this. OK, I stood back alot.

Five of the hives were not amused by the steel bit augering through their walls; three of the hives didn’t really seem to care. Coincidentally, these were the same three hives that have scarely consumed any of the sugar syrup we’ve been feeding all of them, and the same three hives where activity has been minimal. This was a bit disconcerting.

Working from west to east, we removed the feeders from each hive, installed entrance reducers to (go ahead — guess!) reduce the size of the entrances, and topped each hive with a thicker lid. There were so many bees flying about these first five hives — landing on my face mask and staring at me — that I knew whatever football games they were watching in the hive must not’ve been that interesting. (Sure enough, the Detroit Lions lost again.)

And then we got to the sixth hive, where there wasn’t much activity. Hives seven and eight were substantially worse — we saw maybe only a hundred bees in each one. At this time of year, it will be impossible for the bees to generate sufficient numbers to make it through the winter. It was with great sadness that Rose and I realized that we’ve already lost three of eight hives, and the challenges of winter haven’t even begun.

So what happened? We have no idea. The bees still there were working away, so there’s no obvious health issues. Beekeeping requires removing the frames and checking each one early fall, and it is possible when we did that that we accidentally smashed the queen bee. But, “rolling the queen” (as it is called) — doubtful that we would’ve done that in three hives. The queens may have been weak; there may be disease in the hive; we’ll never know.

And what happens to the 100-or-so bees in each hive? Well, that’s really sad. Nature will take its course, and they’ll probably freeze to death as their numbers dwindle … surrounded by the loaded frames of golden goodness that they manufactured all summer. Integrating them into other hives at this point isn’t an option, nor is bringing them in their furry cuteness into my house. We have no other choice than to let them “bee with Tom,” a thought which gives us some comfort.

So, in counting our blessings, we’re looking at the 40-50 deep frames of honey that won’t get consumed this winter. In about a month we’ll take apart and clean up those hives — maybe we’ll find a note explaining what happened.

And, in three months, we’ll order more bees for next spring, and be able to welcome them with a honey of a gift to their new homes.

Recently departed bee-loved bees — I hope you and Tom are hanging out together.