Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie... Or Anywhere Else, for That Matter

Last night I bought a copy of Elizabethtown at StuffMart. Perhaps it's a sign of my rapidly accelerated aging process in the last few years, but the first time I saw the movie, I really keyed in to the great music, the Paul Varjak/Holly Golightly-type almost-romance between two beautiful people who were truly friends first, and the process of overcoming epic failure to come out an optimist on the other side.

This time, all I could focus on was the family's disagreement over whether to bury or cremate poor, dead Mitch.

The remainder of my living years will be devoted to a campaign to ensure no one plants my body in the ground. People in my family just don't get buried. We just don't do it. In fact, I personally think it's sort of gross, imagining my body being pickled, removed of its internal plumbing, and housed in a box that costs more than my dilapidated Honda before dropping into the dirt.

I'll take an order of Cremation with a side of Sprinkle Me Somewhere Special, thank you very much.

When my breathing voucher expires, harvest anything that anyone might need; send the rest to University of Washington. Let the med students cut me apart, scrape my cells, analyze my kidneys, find a cure for cancer... It doesn't matter to me. I'll be done with that body.

When they're done, have them fire me up, then take my ashes to where you remember me. Leave some in the garden at Hemingway's Key West home. Dust the blooms in the Woodland Park rose garden.  Toss some off the side of a sea kayak in Sanibel Harbor. Throw some in the dirt at Hiroshima Peace Park.

Remember me where I lived, not where my dead body ends up. 

Go to places of beauty to honor my memory. Don't give me a marker in some graveyard that meant nothing to me in life. Grow flowers in remembrance; don't cut them and leave them somewhere in a place of sadness. Celebrate your memory of my life by living yours.

Someday, I Won't Be Here To...

Dear Mr. Wright and kids:

In the event of my untimely demise or incapacitation, I am leaving the following list of instructions. Put them in a safe place - you'll need them.

1. The toilet paper roll is held in place by a spindle. When one roll is empty, you may replace it with a full roll by firmly grasping one end of the spring-loaded spindle between your thumb and forefinger, then pulling toward the center of the spindle. Once free, remove empty toilet paper roll, then replace with full roll. To put spindle back in place, follow above directions in reverse.

2. The stovetop may and should be cleaned. To accomplish this mysterious task, allow cooktop to cool (this is important, lest you burn your fingers and have to look for the aloe vera gel - and we all know Mom is the only one who can find it). Then, use a damp sponge to wipe away spills and food particles. Repeat as necessary.

3. To clear cutting board of bread crumbs, use a clean sponge, a paper towel, a washcloth, or even your hand. The important thing is that you do it.

4. Bread will dry out if the bag is not closed properly. For this reason, bags of bread are sold with a handy closing device called a twist-tie. The twist-tie doesn't cost extra; it's thrown in as a free accessory. USE IT.

5. Dumping clean clothes on the floor tends to make them dirty much more quickly. Some genius, way back in history, created a wondrous device called a "dresser." It has miraculous little things inside it called "drawers." You will find that clothes stay cleaner much longer when placed inside these strange "drawers." To use: Firmly grasp knob on outside of drawer. Pull knob toward you, thus opening drawer. Place folded clothes (see Appendix A for instructions on how to fold clothes) inside drawer. Gently push drawer closed. Slamming drawers has never been proven to help them stay shut.

6. A stick of margarine will, by its very nature, collect bread crumbs. May I suggest using a butter knife to slice off the amount of margarine needed, instead of stabbing or scraping at random parts of the stick, smearing on toast, and going in for another scrape, leaving crumbs embedded in the cube?

7. Getting dirty dishes to the kitchen may sound like an insurmountable task, but I will try to explain it in elementary steps. First, grasp plate, bowl or glass in hand. Next, lift the item. That's right - just pick it up. Good! Now, turn your body in the direction of the kitchen, and begin walking. Continue until you reach the kitchen (see map, attached). Finally, place dishes in sink. For the advanced, an attempt at rinsing dishes may be made.

8. You're just going to have to accept that when I'm gone, there will be no one to stay up all night baking cookies for the bake sale you forgot to tell me about until bedtime. There's just no way around that. I have, however, drawn a map to the nearest bakery (attached).

9. Go ahead and pour those last few drops of milk out of the jug and put "milk" on the shopping list. No one is going to yell at you.

10. Using a snowshovel and rake to shove everything from your bedroom floor into the closet is not the same as cleaning your room. Along the same line, cramming every available space in the house full of stuff is not the same as being organized. Find a place for everything, and keep it there.

I know it will be hard to go on without me, dear husband and children, but rest assured that I am in a much, MUCH better place.

Love,

Mom


Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/urbanwoodswalker/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/designpackaging/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/indieman/ / CC BY 2.0

The Chonies I’ll Be Wearing When I Die

With all the excitement and travel, I almost forgot to post this week's Gonzo Mama newspaper column! No worries, readers. Here it is:

If I’m ever involved in a tragic accident, I’m pretty sure I won’t be wearing the lacy black Victoria’s Secret panties that always find their way to the back of my drawer. Even worse, it will probably be Laundry Day, and I’ll be wearing some sort of faded cotton granny panty. The waistband, its elastic long popped and ineffective, will be held together with nothing but a prayer and maybe a safety pin or two.

I have a near-clinical fear of flying or riding in any vessel that travels at extreme speeds or altitudes. In ten hours, I will be boarding a plane to Japan, where I will embark on a journey that begins with a bullet train.

For precisely this reason, I’m packing only my best chonies.

Yesterday really was Laundry Day. Not only were we preparing to leave the country for a week, but we were also preparing for the housesitter who, under no circumstances, should be forced to live for a week with the mountain of laundry I should have done two weeks ago.

I was upstairs, cleaning the toddlers’ room (because our housesitter must also not be led to believe that we allow our children to raise livestock in their bedrooms) when my keen eye and excellent perception helped to discover the mountain of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. I’m a great detective like that. With my arms full of pink textiles, I trotted down the stairs to the laundry room, where I saw Mr. Wright folding a load that had just finished in the dryer.

And that wasn’t all I saw.

There, in all his glory, was a naked Mr. Wright. Well, almost naked. A swath of powder blue cotton/Spandex® blend stretched over my husband’s nether region, and I couldn’t help but notice it was a small swath. I mean, bikini-small.

“What are you wearing?” I asked my strictly-boxer-brief man. “Are you wearing… bikini chonies?”

He looked at me, as if to say, “Clearly, I am. It’s Laundry Day,” but remained silent. Suddenly, I became extremely curious – okay, obsessed – about where the pale blue offenders had come from. Was Mr. Wright carrying on with some trollop who told him, during nights of steamy romance, that he would look mighty fine in a set of micro-shorts?

Well? Was he?

No. He assured me the chonies in question were circa 1988. Why he hadn’t tossed them by now is anyone’s guess. Maybe he hasn’t worn them often enough in the last 22 years to feel he’s really gotten his money out of them. Always the spendthrift, that husband of mine.

My main concern now is ensuring that the light blue bikinis don’t find their way into Mr. Wright’s luggage. They are precisely the type of chonies that invite disaster, and if our plane starts plummeting into the Pacific or the bullet train jumps the track at 200 miles per hour, I don’t want to have to check Mr. Wright’s pants to see if it’s his fault.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/barbietron/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27923176@N02/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Citizen Gonzo: Fort Hood Tragedy Brings Memories of Dean Melberg and Fairchild AFB: I Was There

My first husband was stationed at Fairchild AFB when Dean Melberg opened fire in the hospital. I was supposed to be in the hospital that day. Read my story here:

Citizen Gonzo: Fort Hood Tragedy Brings Memories of Dean Melberg and Fairchild AFB: I Was There

In Memory...

Helen Margaret Evans was born October 23, 1919 at Brown Place ranch near Oxford, Kansas to Lee Roy Evans and Amanda Albertine Cavener Evans. She was the sixth of seven children. In the spring of 1928, the family followed the harvest to Washington State, arriving in the fall. They camped in a park their first night in Seattle, and settled in Cathcart Heights, now known as Clearview, about six miles south of Snohomish.

During her high school years, Helen enjoyed singing as the soloist for the a cappella choir and graduated from Snohomish High School in 1937. She married Chester Clair Nichols on June 27th, 1937 in a double ceremony at which her older sister, Irma, was also married.

Helen and Chet moved to Manson in 1947. They built a home in 1948, planted a small orchard, were longtime members of the Methodist church in Manson, and were community leaders in 4-H and Boy Scouts. Chet built and operated an auto repair shop, and Helen sorted and packed apples while they raised their six children.

In 1965, they rented out their home and moved to Seattle, where Chet worked for Boeing. They became involved in the Methodist church on Queen Anne Hill and sold Chelan Valley fruit, grown by orchardist friends back in Manson. Helen was widely known in the Seattle area for her skills in baking and decorating cakes for special occasions. They returned to their home in Manson in 1975, later becoming grower-members of Manson Growers.

Helen was an avid reader, a talented baker, a lover of angels and a crossword puzzle enthusiast. She enjoyed collecting dolls from around the world and playing bingo with friends at the American Legion Hall in Manson and, more recently, at the Chelan Eagles. Throughout her life, she was an advocate for the physical, emotional and spiritual well-being of children, opening her home time and again to community children in need.

On September 23, 2009, with family members by her side at Wenatchee, Washington’s Central Washington Hospital, Helen went home to the Lord, joining her husband, who passed away on July 14, 1989 in Chelan, Washington.

Preceded in death by her husband and her six siblings, Helen is survived by her children, Herbert (Helen) Nichols; Chester “Nick” (Kathy) Nichols, Jr.; Sally Jo Styles; Mark (Patricia) Nichols; Melody (Dave) Stenerson; and Dawn Nichols; 17 grandchildren; more than 20 great-grandchildren, and several great-great grandchildren.

A memorial service will be held on Saturday, October 24, 2009 at 2:00 p.m. at the Methodist church in Manson. Services will be officiated by Rev. Laurie Aleona, and fellowship and refreshments will follow.

The family asks that no flowers be sent. Those wishing to honor Helen may instead make a contribution to their favorite charity in her name.

Deathbeds Make Strange Reunions

My family is large, somewhat private, and rather spread out. We don't frequently gather in one place, so it was strange waiting at the hospital these last few days for Grandma's passing.

Grandma raised six children, each as different and dynamic as our distinct central Washington seasons.

There's my oldest uncle who, by all rights, is old enough to be my grandfather. His health isn't so great and he lives over four hours away. Even though he can't sit for more than thirty minutes at a stretch, he was determined to find a way to get to Grandma's side before she passed.

My middle uncle was heading to Arizona for the winter when Grandma went to the hospital, and he wasn't turning around. I think it was easier for him to deal with what was going on from a distance.

My older aunt has had two concussions in the last year and, as a result, has some memory issues. Some of us don't know if she's going to follow us from one minute to the next.

My youngest uncle is the steamroller. He communicates as if words are expensive but volume is free. "NO SURGERY." "MORE MORPHINE." God help anyone who tries to defy him.

My mom's coping mechanism is to use her calm, subdued, pacifying voice. It makes people really uneasy.

My younger aunt is the one who has lived with Grandma for years. She probably knows more than anyone else about Grandma's medical history, but she's also the least likely to speak up.

Cousins were there. Not all of them, but enough to preserve my sanity. While the displays of bullying ("You don't know what you're talking about, so leave it to the people who do!") and passive-aggressive undermining ("Well, no one asked my opinion, but if they had, I would have said...") continued between our parents in Grandma's hospital room, the cousins and I sat in the courtyard and chain-smoked. "When will they start acting like adults?" we asked each other.

When people got upset enough with one another to stalk or storm out of the room, I slipped in, requested a bible from the nurses' station, and read selected Psalms to Grandma. Not Psalm 23, which I always associate with death and scariness. I know it wasn't written to be morbid, but it's read so often at funerals that I always think of death when I hear it.

I focused on Psalm 20, sang hymns to her and used my phone to Google the words to "I've Got a Mansion" when I couldn't remember all of the verses, daring the nurses to say just one word about the ban on electronic devices in the hospital.

I held her hand while she tried to block out the pain enough to sleep. "I've gotta go," she said. "I know you do, Grandma. It's okay to go. Jesus is the Great Healer, and he's going to restore you in heaven. You'll be as young and beautiful as you ever were. Papa will be waiting for you, and you'll dance, Grandma! Just think of how you'll dance!"

My cousin asked everyone to recall their favorite memory of Grandma. I offered the story Grandma shared about being a teen, asking Great-Grandma for permission to go to the community social. Great-Grandma was a devout Christian of the highest regard, and didn't allow so much as a deck of cards in her home as, clearly; cards are instruments of the devil. Great-Grandma wasn't so hot on dancing, either, because, Lord knows, the devil likes to dance. Anyway, Grandma asked Great-Grandma if she could go to the community social. She expected her mother to deny her request, since there was to be dancing at the event. Great-Grandma said, “I'm not going to tell you that you can't go, but if the good Lord comes back while you're in there dancing, He's not coming in there after you."

Grandma also used to share a story about her brother who, as a child, was instructed by Great-Grandma to offer a lady visitor a candy from his bag of goodies. The young boy opened his bag and graciously told the guest, "Take a lot... take TWO!"

Every time I offer someone a piece of gum or a potato chip, I always say, "Take a lot. Take two!" and think of Grandma's story.

I weep for the stories I can’t remember.

In the end, Grandma had enough morphine to sleep without pain. Her breaths got further and further apart, and finally she took a breath and... didn't take another one.

Thank you, Jesus, for taking her in peace.


Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/magd/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0