Sunday, June 24, 2007

Dear Mom,

We just came back from a trip to Alaska; and when I was catching up on the local news, I spotted Bill Vulliet's obituary in the Poway Chieftain. I immediately thought of Ruth and how she would now be alone, and then I read that she had died in February, 2005. I didn't know that. I've been out of the loop since you left us, and I haven't kept up with any of your friends - Maxine, Mae, Pat, Bill, Effie, or any of the others. I think I needed to separate myself from that close association so I could give myself to the grief that called me - the grief of a daughter.

How sad that Bill spent his last two years without Ruth. I know it must have been terribly hard on him. They were so close - always together, always joyful, always with a ready smile and a kind greeting. He seemed dependent on her.

I wanted to tell you right away, of course ... even though you've been gone since February, 2003, you've never really left my heart or my presence, so I forget you're not really here. I fully expect to be able to walk into your room at any time and chat with you, to hear your phone ring, to hear your laughter as you talk with your friends. Even though I've used your room as my main office for the past three years, there's an alternate version of that room that is just as vivid to me, and I see it almost as clearly as I see my office version of it.

I didn't know that Bill was a nuclear physicist. I knew he had been an accomplished pianist when he was younger, but I didn't know the extent of his brilliance. He even played the organ at the Baptist church here in Poway. When I knew him, he had become too much disabled by his illnesses. I don't even remember what they were, although I know you would have told me. I just knew that they were the kindest couple and I enjoyed talking with them. I didn't know, either, that they had lost a son in 1988. Oh, the things that happen in people's lives that we don't realize. Everyone has a history that doesn't show on the outside. We so often forget that.

Bill is buried at Dearborn. We will have to go up and see if we can find his grave. I'm sure Ruth is buried there, too.

Speaking of the Baptist church, they have changed the name to The Well, hoping to attract more young families. A number of Baptist churches are following this pattern.

Do you realize that it's been 10 years this year since we lost Dad and Den, and Uncle Jack, Aunt Mary, Floyd, Chuck, and Diane, too?

I thought about you a lot as Lauren and I were cruising to Alaska. I wondered if you had been terribly cold. In fact, I stayed awake at night trying to remember. We even talked about it with our dinner table friends on the ship - Ollie, Joan, Renee, and Chuck. We all had memories of our parents which we shared. I worried that I had sent you off on that cruise many years ago, with Maxine and Mae, without warm enough clothes, and I regretted that I hadn't gone with you so I could make sure you had what you needed. I wondered if I had sent enough money with you to buy warmer clothes if you needed them. I think I did - I'm sure you had your credit card with you, and that's all it takes - plastic. You can buy anything on board ship. But it's been a long time ago, now - probably about 11 years - and my memory grows dim.

Funny the things you think about, isn't it?

Do you know that between us - you and Lauren and me - we took the trip Dad always wanted to take. You did part of it - the inside passage, and Lauren and I did that and extended our trip to a land tour, going all the way to Prudhoe. I remarked several times to Lauren, as we were traveling the Dalton highway, that Dad would have been in his element on that trip - all the wild flowers and plants, the wild life, the mountain ranges, the tundra, the Arctic - he knew so much about all of it, and he would have loved every minute of it. He would have known the names of everything. Dad, the sometimes naturalist, the man who loved and understood so much about the natural world.

Den would have loved the wild life, and he would have been in seventh heaven to have gone to Jeff King's Alaskan Husky show. We still have Den's books about Huskies and sled dogs. He was fascinated by them and spent hours and hours studying about the various kinds of dogs, especially huskies. I remember thinking that Den should have been there instead of me. He always wanted a husky. He would have wanted to mount that sleigh and run the Iditarod with Jeff. As Jeff's crew hooked up some huskies to a tractor, for a summer practice run, and the dogs took off pulling that thing out of the yard and down the road, I was overcome with emotion and my eyes filled to overflowing. I hid my face by pulling down the brow of my hat - I didn't want to lose it there and frighten all those strangers. It was a private moment, between God and Den and me. It's a shock to the system to realize you are living the life someone else wanted so badly - both Dad and Den.

Steve and Connie are coming for a visit next week. We have a whole week of activities planned, including a cruise at the Harbor in San Diego and a trip or two to Carlsbad beach. We are really looking forward to it. Judy, Steve, and I have stayed close together since you're no longer here to keep us connected. I know that would make you happy. You did a lot of things right, even though I'm sure you only prayed that we would stay close. All three of us chip in to make it work well. Not one of us is a slackard when it comes to keeping up the family closeness. We have managed to travel to see each other at least once a year, and we talk on the phone every Saturday. This year, I went to Judy's, and Steve and Connie are coming here; so there's one part of the triangle that won't be connected this year. But I think that's probably ok.

While I'm writing, I'll catch you up on a few more things over the years. I'm pretty sure Mae's husband died. And Frank died - the year after you did. As you knew he would be, he's buried beside Dad. He suffered way too long. Parkinson's is such an insidious disease, isn't it? We have another friend who's suffering the last stages of Parkinson's. He has been unable to do anything and has been in a nursing home for about six months now. The disease just lingers and lingers and lingers.

Darlene died and we gave her a spot at the foot of your graves. She had no one here, and we had room.

Glen C died suddenly in August 2004. I know that's probably a big shock for you and you would be so sorry to hear about it. It was really rough on Jana and the children, but I think they have worked toward getting on with life now. The older two have grown into their adult years, so Jana and the youngest moved into an apartment and she changed jobs so she would have better pay to support her and Josh. I'm sure they will never get "through it," as people seem to expect (or sometimes even demand - our society is so shallow sometimes). We've learned that you put your grief on and wear it next to your skin. Over time, others can't see it; but the loss, as well as the closeness of those you've lost, never leaves you.

While I have you, let me ask you a question. Did you have it in your mind that you would live to be as old as Dad was when he died? I often wondered about that. I remember, a few weeks before you died, you mentioned that we were coming up on the sixth anniversary of Dad's death, and I said no, it was the seventh, I think. Actually, if that's the way it was, you were right, I think - it was six years. You should have held on for another year! Anyway, within a few weeks, you were gone, too. So many thoughts in retrospect. One can never understand death, even though it's inevitable; and memory plays tricks, sometimes nasty ones, on a person. No matter, time passed, and life is finite.

Well, time does march on, doesn't it? I might not write again, but one of these days we'll see you and we'll catch up with those things that are really important. By that time, so many things that we thought were important will have disappeared, taking their proper place in the forgotten world.

We're now learning what it means to be on the threshold of our elderly years, and I think we're doing it with at least a little bit of grace. It helps that we no longer have anyone who depends on us. Even Willie and Shebet are gone now (we lost them this past winter), so we are truly alone. We're determined to try hard to keep the momentum going as long as we can. We have learned to lean on each other when we find we have a lack - as hard as that is for two dynamic and somewhat competitive people, and that's good.

I retired again (yes, I went back to work for three years - and loved every minute of it, as you can well imagine) in February. Now that our spring travels are done and Lauren's seasonal job has passed for this year, we're remapping our lives again - this time with full retirement in mind as we grow older. I'm cleaning house and truly getting rid of a number of things. I still have almost all your clothes - at least your good ones, which I'm saving for Donna - but there are other things that I can bear to part with now - things that were yours, Dad's, Den's - and part with them I will! I'm leaving a few things for Donna, even though I don't need them any more, just because she will need them for her healing process - just as I've needed them - when the time comes for her to do her job. I have found that touching and being surrounded by all these tangible memories is an important part of grieving and then learning to live again. And I want Donna to bathe in all the love that I have for her, and all the memories we have together, so she, too, can wear those memories and that love right next to her skin for the rest of her life.

I learned a lot from you about how to keep on keeping up, and I think of you often - speaking little messages to you, like - ok, now I get it! Thanks for being such an inspiration and model for me. I hope I can be as good a model and inspiration for those who are coming after me, especially for Donna. Our lives are a legacy for those who remain, always. We can only hope that it's a good one.

Love,

Sue