I feel a warm hand on my shoulder gently shaking me awake. "Wake up sweetie...come and look at the moon" my mother whispers in my ear. I reluctantly leave the warmth of my bed and take her hand and we quietly walk down the hall and out to the front porch. Although the lunar event itself may have been a once-in-our-lifetime event, going out to gaze at the night-sky with Mama happened many times throughout my child-hood. Meteor showers, lightning storms, a lunar eclipse, or simply a large harvest moon would prompt her to be certain her children would have reverence for such things.
In 2007 shortly after my parents moved from Idaho to Utah to be closer to their children, Daddy began to show signs of dementia. We decided it would be best to make plans to move in with each other and join households while he was still healthy enough to make the change fairly easily and we'd be able to give support first-hand for whatever and however long it would be necessary. It was a joyful time, and an honor to have my parents presence, love, and influence; multi-generational living at it's finest. Daddy was diagnosed with bladder cancer. He was too confused to understand his diagnoses and unable to tolerate any form of treatment. We were connected with Hospice. Mama spent her days browsing through catalogues of trees and roses, baking cookies and visiting with her grand-sons in her office. Daddy spent his days either looking through his coin collection, napping on the couch, an un-read book on his chest, or out on the porch with a blanket around his shoulders. "Look at that mountain Preshie! It looks like the roof of a cabin on that side!" He'd say it every time as though it were the first time. And every time I'd act surprised. "Wow Daddy! It sure does!"
Can you see the little "cabin"?
I always said I'd never leave this house. It would be our forever home. Daddy passed away in this house. Mama had a beautiful oak tree planted in the back yard. Bronson has only known this home from the time he started Kindergarten to the end of his Senior year. It has been the first home for a couple of our newborn grand-babies. So many birthday parties, family dinners, holidays, porch pictures. Vegetable gardens. Some years with hardly anything, and some with enough we could have opened a fruit stand. Broken hearts, new-found love, neighbors that have cared for our teen-agers as though they were their own, and friends that have mourned with us and equally rejoiced with us. How could we ever move away.
I walk slowly around the yard. I can remember when each rose-bush was planted. Each tree. My beloved shade garden that has taken years to become just that. From a certain vantage point of this garden I can see the little "cabin" on the mountain Daddy used to point out to me. Continuing my walk I come around to the front porch and sit for a minute with my face turned to the sun and close my eyes. This house is so big. Our family is so big. There was a time when my seven children were all young, and I could hardly find a spot to think my own thoughts or have a moment to myself. And now it seems that over-night all I have is space. Too much space. The empty rooms in this house are a constant reminder of my people that seem to have grown up over-night. A reminder that once my parents were both with me in this house and now they are both gone.
We listed the house for sale and made an offer on a cabin.
There is an Autumn chill in the air and the trees have been putting on an unusually stunning show this Fall. The last blooms of the roses have faded and look like they belong in some sort of vintage oil painting. I collect several leaves from each tree and then notice that the oak trees have dropped their acorns. I put several in a jar, and pack them carefully with packing paper and tuck into a card-board moving box, along with other glass-ware and mark the box "fragile".
The Bur Oak and Scrub Oak trees Mama planted
Dave and I have spend the last two weeks sleeping in my parents old master bedroom in the basement. I wanted to be certain that I had no misgivings about moving away from this house. This home. This bedroom where I lay with my Mama in the bed she and Daddy shared for nearly sixty years. The night the funeral home came to take her husband's body, she didn't want to sleep alone. So I lay next to her and we cried together and even chuckled a little bit. I don't remember what about. And she coughed. Always a cough. This same bedroom that two of our infant grandchildren have come home to. It's so quiet. There is only one teenager left at home now. More man than boy. I turn to look at Dave. It's so dark I can't see his features, so I reach out to touch his face. "I'm really okay with moving....being in this big house feels too lonely now, and besides, Mama and Daddy love the mountains." He gives me a big bear hug and I feel content.
One last porch portrait with the family
My oldest brother Alan texted me a few days ago. "Hey good morning on what should be an incredible lunar eclipse later on." We have been in our cabin for a couple of weeks now and are surrounded by nearly floor to ceiling cardboard boxes. Down-sizing is not for the faint of heart. When it gets a bit overwhelming I go stand out on the deck and look out at the view. There are a couple roof-lines of cabins in the distance, but mostly lots and lots of oak trees. And now I realize we are "living" in the cabin that Daddy saw all those years ago. With my brother's reminder to look at the moon, I set my alarm so I don't miss it. Unable to fall asleep before the event anyway, I slide my feet into my slippers and put on a coat, quietly walk down the stairs and go out onto the deck. There it is! Although covered in a thin layer of clouds, I can still see it about half covered. Beautiful. The very same moon my mother showed me as a child.
This Spring I'm going to unwrap that little jar of acorns, and have each child and grand-child plant one up here at the Cabin of Love. Mama and Daddy would like that.
There are far far better things ahead than any we leave behind ~ C.S. Lewis
Comments