Thankful for the Memories

"It's our memories that make us who we are. Without them, we're nothing." - Richard Paul Evans

Change is a constant in life. What tomorrow will bring remains a mystery; the present offers family, friends, and daily events, but the past holds the memories. I am excited for tomorrow, I live for today, but I am my memories.

Because I am a writer, my memories are recorded in words. Sure, I have photo albums and home movies, but it is the stories that let me relive precious moments with my children and bring loved ones back to visit. The stories provide glimpses of the past. 

When my father died in May of this year, I reflected on the many moments we shared working at our family bakery in the mom and pop grocery store. He was my role model, and I cherish the lessons he taught. I learned through his simple, daily behaviors. He always told me that if I love my job, I will never work a day in my life.

"Dressed in white pants and shirt, he spread his hands on a flour dusted apron. Having washed them multiple times since he arrived at the bakery at 3:00 am, they were not dirty, simply covered in particles of the last items added to the 25-gallon bowl attached to the mixer. Working instinctively, with no recipes in sight, he turned on the faucet to fill a pitcher of water which he added to the mix.

The automated movements of Daddy's hands demonstrated strength as he extends a wooden paddle five feet into the gut of the oven to capture the bread pans and extract them. Protecting his hands with thick cotton oven mitts, four loaves appear. The aroma invaded the room as he banged the pans to loosen the sides of the bread and dump them on the wood butcherblock. The process continued until two dozen loaves rested on the surface.

Country music blared and mixed with the smells that defined him. Dad's voice accompanied Merle Haggard singing, "Take This Job and Shove It," but his passion for his business contrasted the words of the song. As his own boss, he lived the dream by slaving six, often seven days a week at the family business bearing his name, Nick's Bakery. 

The oxymoron of going to work describes the daily experience of baking, a job that provided security and satisfaction but demanded constant devotion; it was his baby."

Sometimes you will never know the value of something, until it becomes a memory. - Dr. Seuss

Unfortunately, my mom's body was plagued with illnesses and disabilities. She never complained. In fact, we joked that she would not say shit if her mouth was full of it. She always looked at life from a positive angle thinking about what she could do for others. 

"Mom, Dad, and I flew from Boise, Idaho to Denver, Colorado for yet another in a series of operations. Tuberculosis and numerous complications associated with the disease demanded constant care and observation. The night prior to her surgery, I laid in a queen bed beside my parents who were three feet away.

 Create a visual in your mind: two queen beds in a room with a dresser, table, two chairs, and a TV with just enough space to slide to the bathroom fifteen feet away. Imagine the 5 by 3 floral picture above the bed, the paisley bedspreads, and two lamps that swing over the beds, a typical Motel 8, Best Western, or a Ramada.

With my back to the bed that my parents shared, I listened to their conversation. It started out quite formulaic; if there was a larger family, it might have been a scene from The Waltons.

"Good night, Brenda."

"Good night, Mom. Night Dad."

"Night, Dena."

"Night, Honey."

However, a conversation trailed the good nights. Dad commented about dinner and mom replied that the plane ride had been smooth. Dad continued about the meal but elaborated on the waitress's service. Mom picked up on the last word and stated her satisfaction with the service on the plane. I began to take notice when the conversation followed two parallel lines of thought and contained no points of intersection. Dad complained about the rental car mentioning it smelled fishy. Only to get an enthusiastic agreement that fish would be great for lunch tomorrow. I listened as the dialogue grew further apart with each word.

When I could tolerate it no more, I sat up in bed, pulled forward the lamp and switched it on. For some reason, I felt it necessary to interpret. 

"No Mom, Dad doesn't want fish. He thinks the car stinks." But before I could explain the misunderstandings the paraphernalia strewn about the room caught my attention. He talked without teeth; she listened but could not hear. I explained what I heard, and we laughed. We laughed at what I reported; we laughed at all the possible conversations in the past, and even anticipated future possibilities.

At the time I hadn't realized how limited future bedtime conversations would be but now understand it wasn't the words that were important. It was the proximity of their bodies, her voice, his arm around her waist, and the laughter.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. - Maya Angelou

"One day when Mom had been in the hospital for some time, two weeks. Her body was extremely weak, but she wished to move from the bed to a chair. A male nurse assisted her. With her arms around his neck, face to face, she began humming and asked if he would like to dance. Watching Dad try to tie the back of her hospital gown as she did a two-step recalled scenes from the TV show reminding me of times Ricky Ricardo scurried behind his wife, Lucy, trying to cover her chaos."

Dad protected Mom through all her trials and remained beside her until the day she died. Sure, it would have been great if every day had been filled with roses and rainbows, but that is not real life. And throughout her medical problems, we became a stronger family as we supported each other.

One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful. - Sigmund Freud

Dad was a family guy and he instilled his love of family in me. Since I was a working mother, he answered calls from the school when the children were sick. I remember an event he told about our youngest daughter that I developed into a story.

"One afternoon when she was traveling with her grandpa home from school, she asked, "If someone does something bad and they are sorry, will they get in trouble?"

His answer was loving but naïve, "Well, if they are sorry, I don't think they should get in trouble."

So, she was free to confess, "Papa, I dropped my shoe out the window." That was her first lesson in forgiveness and unconditional love." I couldn't think of a better person to teach it than my father."

I am thankful for these memories because even though Dad and Mom are no longer beside me, my heart warms at the memories, and our children will forever have stories instead of simply photos of moments in time.

When I think about it, the men in our family hold us together. They are strong, wise and have a sense of humor. They have taught me if I can laugh, then the tears are manageable.

When our oldest daughter turned from an innocent child to a teenager, life threw her a curve ball.

"Everything in her life was out of proportion. Her grandmother who had always been a major player in her life was dying; her boyfriend had broken her heart; her hamster died; there was little possibility that she would pass math; and her parents didn't understand why she should be able to stay out later. All things that in the mind of a teenage girl were of equal significance. Nothing at the time made her happy. Life just didn't provide her contentment and because people tend to strike out at those they love, she blamed us, her parents.

She cried; she turned her back; she kicked; she screamed until finally one-night Randy looked at her and exclaimed, "Honey, life is a shit sandwich. You have to get used to it and accept the bad with the good."

I remember thinking, "My husband must be insane." What a crazy thing to say to a depressed child when we should be encouraging and reassuring. But I was surprised when she looked into his face and smiled - for the first time in a long time."

Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children. - Charles R. Swindoll

When Dad died, the cleaning process began. Though a difficult process, we were flooded with memories. When I came upon a box of letters from my grandfather, I felt surprised and overwhelmed by the memories his words written so long ago released. Mom had kept them all bound and safe. Grandpa ended his letter as he always did with a few words of wisdom. 

"I try to keep from writing about my troubles as they don't interest anybody. After all everybody has their troubles and disappointments, that's what makes life interesting. If everything went along smooth, all the time that would be tiresome. Just remember sex is the most fun you can have without laughing AND tobacco and prune juice make a good tonic, but you better not cough."

His letters escorted me back to a different time. I not only visualized the events from his letters but drifted through so many other wonderful memories triggered by his words. It became apparent where Mom's positive attitude and sense of humor stemmed. 

I sat on the floor with my legs crossed appreciating his letters. I made myself a warm cup of tea, curled up with a blanket and read until my eyes wouldn't stay open anymore, then went to bed with Grandpa whispering in my dreams. His letters are gifts that I cherish because they not only give me moments with him but Mom and Dad.

Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others. - Rosa Parks

I am thankful for the memories of life and death, the good and the bad.

"At Mom's funeral, all the grandchildren gathered in a private room waiting for the ceremony to begin. It was almost impossible to make small talk. The kids sat in silence and stared blankly at the walls.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dad walked into the room and noticed the sadness and silence. We had been taught there is a time to laugh and a time to cry and sometimes they overlapped. Dad knew that we needed a laugh at this moment more than ever. He stood boldly in front of us and asked us how he looked. We all replied that he looked nice in his funeral attire.

The question that then came out of my dad's mouth caught us all off guard, "Do you think I'm sexy?" We all just stared at him with wide eyes. Then without hesitation, He started taking off his suit jacket and proclaiming for the whole world to hear, "I'm too sexy for my jacket… too sexy for my jacket…"

We all busted out into uncontrolled laughter in that small room meant for mourning. Grandpa knew that Grandma wouldn't approve of us being sad and ignored his own grief to make us all laugh. As a member of this family, I learned at an early age that laughter is the best medicine, even if it's not always the most appropriate in some situations."

This May, at my father's funeral, my brother gave the eulogy. As he spoke, he got that twinkle in his eye that made me fearful of what he might be up to; I remembered that look from when we were kids conspiring covert activities that our parents would never approve. He peered over the small crowd and then paused to gather the attention of his sons who attended via Zoom and my daughters who stood near. He reminded everyone how proud Dad was of his family and that we should rejoice because Dad would be joining Mom, his one true love. 

Then he reminded us of Dad's behavior at Mom's funeral. My brother took off his suit jacket and started singing, "I'm too sexy for my jacket… too sexy for my jacket…" We all laughed and cried simultaneously. He closed the ceremony with a reminder that Dad wouldn't want us crying but celebrating the memories.

I feel thankful for laughter and for family, but most of all I am thankful for the memories.