I was fortunate enough to spend nearly two months of 2023 back home in Michigan escaping the brutal heat of the Florida summer. Through Air B&B I’d rented the downstairs of a beautiful home that just happened to be on Lake Two, directly across the street from Lake Three where I had lived prior to moving away. It seemed serendipitous, to say the least.
My little home away from home had a lovely large bedroom with a desk where I could continue to work remotely. There was a spacious living area, ample bathroom, and no real kitchen, save a microwave, toaster, coffee maker, and small fridge, certainly the only items I needed, as anyone who knows me knows my relationship with kitchens.
Looking out the French doors leading to the paver patio covered by the deck above, I often felt like I was in my own little gnome home. The view from those doors was beyond spectacular. Through the wild landscaping could be seen a bird bath and a curved path that led to Lake Two.
Many mornings I would wake just as dawn was breaking and look through the doors to see mist rising from the water obscuring the reflection of the trees across the lake. I would hear the loons already fishing, their calls blending with the sandhill cranes. Wild Kingdom had nothing on this place! If it was warm enough or I was bundled enough I would take my coffee and sit on the glider outside my door and soak up the sunrise, the view, and the peace.
It’s funny, in hindsight, how we are given what we need to heal. I’d had a tumultuous year filled with heartache, heartbreak, endings, and new beginnings. Maybe I wasn’t fully aware that I hadn’t given myself time to grieve, to heal, always simply pushing forward, filling my days with work, trying to stay positive, praying, praying . . .
But this place.
By myself in this place I was allowed the space and the serenity to recover not only who I was, but where I was going and what I wanted. Being surrounded by my family and friends in a place I called home, feeling their love, listening to their own stories, filling myself with my kids and my grandkids . . . that’s what I needed.
Wow. It’s the end of July. How did this many months go by without one peep outta me? Let’s see if I can do a condensed version of the past several months. At least I’m in the same place I was when I posted in March. Considering my last year, that’s saying a lot.
Since March I’ve been working a lot with the Daytona Beach branch of Gentiva, by request. And for the past three months I have requested a pay increase or at least some kind of promised bonus, but nothing has come of that so far, to the point where if I am asked to do anything more, I will politely decline.
I met a nice man on Match named Jim. He’s a Bronx, NY, kind of guy, works full-time at Lowe’s. Very nice. We have lots in common, but I do believe he’s Mr. Right-Now rather than Mr. Right.
And besides, currently I am in Michigan where I arrived on July 14th with the help my Bro Kev. I moved into my little place on Lake 2 on the 19th and really like it. Very peaceful, beautiful views, quiet.
On the 22nd we drove up to the Soo for the wedding of Connor and Sophie and had a blast. All my kids were together along with their dad. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the dancing, being deviants with Meg, Molly, and Teri, and chatting it up with everyone. It was a great party.
The following Tuesday, Meg rented a pontoon boat, and Kevin dragged it up to Burt Lake in Indian River. With a big inflatable float from Bro Bri, all the young kids plus Drew had a blast being dragged around the lake with Drew taking a couple dunks when Kevin agreed to oblige that wish. Picnicing on the beach was made easy by everyone helping out, and the three little girls – Scarlett, Audrey, and Evie – played so well together. They even spent an overnight with Aunt Meg and did GREAT!
Thursday was a family-wide gathering at Kevanna’s that even brought Lesa, Hannah, Geno, and Zack from the Nugent side. What a great surprise! There was quite the crowd, beautiful weather, and fun water-balloon tossing. It was yet another great day.
So now everyone is heading back to their respective homes – except me. I’m in Michigan through the month of August when, at the end, I’ll pick up Anita, and together we’ll drive back to Florida. She’ll stay a bit, then she’ll fly back home.
But I’m having withdrawals, which I knew would happen. Suddenly no one is around. I went out today and had lunch alone then came home. My sister is involved with her husband in TC, and everyone who is local has gone on with their busy lives. So I’m working and reading, not getting the exercise I need, and missing my kids. I’ll have to get over to Kevanna’s and get a ‘kid fix’ this week.
After that, I will head down to my 50th class reunion on Friday this week. Now THAT should be very interesting. I wasn’t going to go; I had lots of good reasons not to. But what the heck. It’s the last time I’ll ever see these people, no doubt about it. I won’t recognize anyone, and vice versa. At least it’ll be good for a laugh!
Today brings up wonderful memories of past Irish parties with Jan the piano player, Dad the entertainer, Mom the hostess with the mostess, and more fun, singing and laughter than oughta be legal! The annual St. Patrick’s Day singalong was a tradition that began way before my time but ended up including generations of O’Connor friends and family. While I’m sad because it’s over, I’m smiling because it happened. And I miss it ALL!!
I do. I think I can say without question that anyone who was ever involved in any of these get-togethers, from the early 1950’s until the last one in 2005, has happy, joyful memories. My mom always says no one does sing-alongs anymore, and I think she’s right. At least not like they did. There was always a piano player, from Ag, Kevin, and John, to Mom, Joe, and finally Jan…wonderful, amazing, talented Jan, a life-long professional entertainer who, in her twilight years, chose to play piano at the O’Connors’ St. Patrick’s Day party rather than anywhere else that would have PAID her to play. She could play anything, and she could follow Dad’s ‘singing’ like they’d been performing together for years.
Chloe (“Ya don’t say!”), Me and My Shadow (Dad and Carl), and a personal favorite,Shanty Town, along with every Irish song we knew. Why, someone finally made up our own songbooks — pages and pages of the words to all the songs we could think of. Charlie’s Songbook, and we had loads of them. But even with so many copies, people had to share. After every song, you’d hear someone shout out, “Number 28!”, “Number 103!”, or just the name of the song they wanted. And then, “What PAGE?!?” Then Jan would play.
And the harmonizing! We of course had to include some of the musicals, especially Dad’s favorite, “The Music Man.” We’d split into two groups, and the guys would start Lida Rose. When the time was right — and often when it wasn’t — the girls would join in with Sweet and Low, each group leaning into themselves to hear if they were following their own song or getting distracted by the louder bunch. While I’ll have to admit some years were better than others, when we’d finally hit that last, sweet harmonized note, with everyone reaching the right tone…why, THATwas something else. And the memory of those satisfied smiles on our faces and the cheers all around — either because we were that good or because it was finally over — will be tucked away to bring out and enjoy year after year. (Charlie O: “We should take this on the road!”)
Typing this, the past floods in when, as children on Kingston, we would be lined up at the top of the stairs, legs dangling through the railings, listening to the laughter, the singing, hearing Dad with his crazy one-liners, and more laughter. We learned the old songs that way, songs that are slowly dying out for lack of singing them, sharing them. 30 years later, to be a part of that tradition, hosting those same parties and sharing them with my own kids, was a gift I wasn’t aware of until now, when it’s over.
I was one of the lucky 11. I was lucky enough to be born into a family who cherished and celebrated its Irish heritage. I never knew my mother wasn’t Irish until years later when we were exploring our family tree. She’d embraced Dad’s love o’ the Irish as if she were born into it and encouraged it in all of us.
We see this saying used in many ways, but in what I consider its original form, If you’re lucky enough to be Irish, you’re lucky enough.
Last year I thought my mother was dying. We’d put her on hospice in June of 2021 and watched her decline over a few weeks. And then she rallied. She didn’t come back a hundred percent, but she did come back. She had lots of visitors between June and year’s end, and we celebrated her 95th birthday along with the rest of the world on New Year’s Eve. A month later we discovered a water leak had caused lots of damage and excessive mold in the house, and with that, my siblings decided it was time to bring mom back to Michigan. Within a very short time, we met my brother and his wife at the airport, and mom left us to go to Grand Rapids, Michigan, to a very nice apartment in an assisted living facility where, at 95, she would live by herself for the first time in her life. Even with lots of family members nearby, it did not go well.
Confused, disoriented, looking for her family, she only seemed herself when one of us was with her. She had her walker on hand, but left alone, she would always push it to one side and then hold onto furniture as she made her way around her little place. She couldn’t remember what the SOS bracelet on her wrist was for. Day to day she could not seem to remember why she was there, saying she felt like she was just dropped off and left. Her forgetfulness grew even worse, and though she had visitors every single day, until they came, she was lost. My sister had cameras in place to check on her, but it was heartbreaking to see and hear her confusion at night, knowing there was little to be done but call in and ask someone to please check on her.
And finally she fell. Twice. The first was just a scraped knee. She was shook up but quickly forgot about it. A day later, in the early hours of the morning, either her bad leg gave out or she had a slight stroke. They found her on the floor in the hallway near the bathroom, her left shoulder dislocated. At the hospital, under sedation, they tried to put the shoulder back in, but due to a fractured humerus and her extremely fragile bones, all they could do was strap her in a brace and send her ‘home.’ That day, Monday, February 28th, was the beginning of the end.
I was already scheduled to fly up to see her the following weekend. But after my sister called on Wednesday and asked if I could come sooner, I got on a plane the next day to offer her some much needed relief. Mom was confined to her hospital bed. It took nearly 24 hours, but with Kindred Hospice’s help, we found the right medicinal cocktail to ease the pain and anxiety her ordeal had caused. She had difficulty forming words with enough breath to speak them. She’d stopped eating and drinking.
It was a fast decline from there. All my Michigan siblings came to see her along with many nieces and nephews. She would ask what was happening, and we tried to be honest with her. I slept on the couch in her living room not wanting to be too far away from her. Friday evening I was sitting next to her bed, my head resting on my arm on the half rail combing her hair with my fingers the way she did when I was a child. She turned to look at me and said in her garbled speech, “I love you so, so much.” I said, “I love you more.” She smiled and said, “We could be sisters!” I laughed and told her, “That works for me!” Then she smiled and made a low, breathy, “Huh-huh” laugh. Saturday and Sunday there were lots of visitors, but mom was rarely alert enough to do more than squeeze a hand. Nurses and aides asked if she had said her goodbyes to everyone. We assured them that we had told mom repeatedly that we were all going to be okay and that she can go be with dad. “But has she heard from them all?” She had not.
So Sunday evening I contacted each of the three siblings in Florida and told them we would be calling them and putting the phone to mom’s ear so she could hear them. And this woman, this mother of 11 who had not moved for close to 36 hours, turned her head at the sound of her child’s voice and listened as each one said their separate goodbyes.
Everyone went home, and I eventually went and laid on the couch. I fell into a deep sleep only to be awakened suddenly about 12:35 a.m. I quickly got up and went into mom’s room finding her in the same position, but not breathing. I sat down, put my fingers on either side of her throat and felt a faint pulse. I attempted to sing to her the same song she sang for dad before he died, “Goodnight sweetheart; well, it’s time to go…”
In less than 10 minutes, her heart – her big, beautiful, loving heart – stopped beating, and she died at 12:45 a.m. I sat there with her, combing her hair back, so grateful her spirit woke me to be with her at the end, smiling through my tears thinking about the glorious reunions happening in heaven.
How did I get so lucky, out of 11 kids, to be the one to be there when this sweet, wonderful soul left this earth?
Sixty-plus years ago at a small cottage built by my maternal grandfather on a bluff overlooking Lake Huron, my siblings and a handful of cousins marched in an impromptu Fourth of July parade put together by the various adults in attendance. While my aunt banged away at the piano playing some of the traditional patriotic songs, my dad, waving a large flag, led the small contingent of children around the cottage while the grown ups sang “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,” “You’re a Grand Ole’ Flag,” and any other marching-type song they could think of. Everyone trailed happily along waving little flags totally unaware of why, just having fun marching behind the big guy. This went on year after year after year. As the family grew, the parade – eventually nearly 30 strong – became a favorite tradition along the beach shore. Somewhere along the line someone furnished a long string of gas station flags that we all held onto while dad would holler, “Tighten up that line!” Lining up in front of the flag pole, our hands over our hearts, we would then recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Years later, as we all got older, the parade finally culminated with the bravest of the brave marching into the cold waters of the Great Lake, dad pushing forward until his hat floated on the water.
And now we see my brother Terry carrying on the family tradition this past Fourth of July at his own cottage on Lake Huron with his own kids and grandkids. I clipped these pictures from a video he shared where we could hear him singing the same songs he learned so long ago. Just for fun, he’s the baby in the last picture at the top, where mom is carrying him, more than 50 years ago, at the end of the parade line.
I know there wasn’t a single kid, myself included, who didn’t look at his video and smile. We’re all so grateful to see dad in Terry. It brought back such happy memories of times so long ago; times gone by, but certainly not forgotten. Tradition.
(Pardon the grainy images clipped from old 8mm movies thankfully filmed by my uncle all those years ago.)
My mother may be dying. Five words that, when said to myself, feel like they don’t mean anything; at least not anything real.
My 94-year-old mother has been living here with us in Florida since last Thanksgiving. She had previously lived with my brother in Michigan for the past 14 years, minus the winter months with me, since my dad’s passing. But circumstances brought her to us for longer than the typical winter months, and now she is in her bedroom, in a hospital bed, and for all I know, she is dying.
Did I mention I work for hospice? I know about people dying. I’ve talked to them or their caregivers and I’ve offered words of reassurance. But what did I know? My dad was on hospice in the hospital where he died, but only for a few days, and it seems far removed from this. This is different.
Mom is now on our hospice. She has an angel of a nurse and a wonderful aide. She has all the accoutrements of a hospital room, but she’s home, with us. And instead of hearing the reassuring words I’d uttered to others, I have tunnel vision. I feel inept. Like I’m not doing enough, but I don’t know what enough is.
She surprises us. She’ll be totally wiped out and barely able to get up enough strength to use the bedside commode. She’ll be in bed all night and all day eating and drinking little to nothing. And then suddenly I’ll see her dressed, coming out of the bedroom smiling, saying, ‘Hi, Honey!’ She has raised 11 children, worked tirelessly in and outside the home, traveled near and far. She is part of that generation that feels she’s not supposed to stop.
I’ve been trying to keep my 10 siblings updated as much as possible. The challenge seems to be, though, that my dire narration is often followed by a ‘never mind’ report making me feel foolish, like I’m jumping the gun or something.
She says this is dumb. “This is so dumb.”“I just wanna feel better.”“If I’m gonna kick the bucket, I wish I’d just kick the bucket.” I have no response to that. Part of me wants her to join her beloved Charlie, whom she has had to live without for 14 years. Of course, the selfish part of me wants her to rally once again, to go to breakfast with us, to drive to the ocean and watch the surf. And it could happen.
Being on this side of hospice is eye-opening and humbling. I can do this part, caring for her, making her comfortable, accepting the thanks from my brothers and sisters for something I’d have fought them for. This part is easy.
I’m not sure about the next part. She’s the last of them. She deserves to go peacefully to her husband and loved ones gone before. My mind knows this absolutely. I want it for her, too.
This original post was from a year ago but bears repeating as Christmas Eve approaches along with one of my fondest childhood memories.
Growing up, there was a Christmas Eve tradition in our home that began when we were small children with the reading of T’was the Night Before Christmas.
“The Reading” about 25 years ago
Each year on that night, we would all get into our pajamas and make our way downstairs for “The Reading.” Dad would lie on his belly at the foot of the tree surrounded by all his children with mom standing somewhere behind. He would masterfully and with great relish read from the pages of that well-known book. After concluding with a very dramatic, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” we would suddenly hear, “Crack! Crack! Crack!” and from the ceiling, huge walnuts would fall to the floor! At the same time, dad would leap up and run to the window yelling, “I see him! I see Santa! There he goes!” As we searched the dark skies for any sign of the sleigh, mom and dad would tell us to hurry upstairs so Santa could come back. We would then race up to bed and wait until morning to descend the stairs and behold the many presents under the Christmas tree.
As we got older, of course, we were quick to figure it all out. But with such a large family, and always with little ones, it was great fun to see what our parents saw, and it made us want to duplicate it in our own families years later.
The tradition continues.
This is a photo collage I put together on Christmas Eve a few years ago. These pictures started showing up on Facebook as the evening progressed, and I just had to collect as many as I could and put them together as a small tribute to a cherished tradition that started over 60 years ago. I was lucky enough to experience this great mystery as a child, and it has been passed along to my children and now my grandchildren. My nieces and nephews and now great-nieces and great-nephews are delighting in the same excitement. I’m sure my parents never dreamed their idea for a little Christmas Eve magic would be repeated for generations every night before Christmas. But I know when it is, they, along with all our missed loved ones, are smiling down on these scenes.
I began reflecting on my siblings after seeing and enjoying several of them over the past winter while they visited Mom during her stay with us. Keeping in mind these are written August of 2020, the page of these musings is here.
(They also follow below as the default in WordPress.)
LiviKnit 