Birthdays were always a time of celebration. In the past when any of her siblings marked a birthday they invited everyone to their home to celebrate.If I try to remember one birthday in particular, I can't. They all sort of blend together. But I do recall bits of Mom's 50th birthday. It must have been a Friday night as Mom asked my sister and I to hang around at home until her family arrived (for appearance sake, I'm sure). After every one arrived we were free to go to the high school football game.
Aunts and uncles arrived from Grand Rapids at the designated hour (are Dutch people ever late?) and Mom greeted them at the back door. Family ALWAYS came in through the back door.
My Uncle Jim, who loved to tease, kissed her on the cheek and said, "Fifty! That's half a century. You are getting old." Mom was the youngest of nine children.
But the celebrations always followed the same general format. Everyone would crowd into the living room -- the men on one end and the women on the other. I never knew what they talked about as we learned at an early age to kind of tune out adult conversations. (And let's be honest here, that skill came from years of sitting for hours on end in church on Sunday -- morning and evening services). Eyes would glaze over and soon all one heard was a low rumbling of indistinguishable voices while the mind wandered in a million directions.
But time marches on . . . Forty-two years later there are no siblings left to celebrate Mom's birthday. And Mom is not aware that she had a birthday.
When I arrived at the home Monday she was sitting in the dining room with a few other residents. She was happy to see me -- as always. But when we got into her room and I asked if she wanted to go out for coffee, all I got was a blank stare. She didn't ask if we were going to go somewhere so I sat with her to wait to see what she was going to do. I wish we could have a conversation but that is impossible. I turned on the TV and we sat in silence for a while longer. Mom fell asleep. After an hour I left.
When my younger sister visited her in the afternoon she was more alert and they went out for ice cream. That was the extent of Mom's birthday . . . A sign outside her room wishing her a happy birthday, a few cards from well wishers she no longer remembers and a visit from her daughters.
What a difference for Mom. No planning what she was going to serve. No enduring Uncle Jim's teasing. No adults crowded into her living room. Just a tired, confused little lady.
Life being what it is, I suppose we could dwell on what was and bemoan the fact her life that will never be what it was. But that would get us nowhere.
So today I picked myself up and started in again. Daily routines bring back memories of Mom. And that's okay. Little things will bring a flood of memories.
King brought home a bag of apples the other day. A big bag. I made applesauce and canned some of it. There were still apples left over. Looking at them day in and day out reminded me of Mom and Dad.
After Dad retired they would collect apples from various farmers in the area and store them in the garage until it was time for their church to put together Thanksgiving baskets. Every basket got some of the apples Mom and Dad had squirreled away. Mom made applesauce with the leftover apples.
My bag of apples was still in the kitchen. I was feeling Mom-ish, so I made more applesauce and a pot of goulash for lunch. It was one of Mom's go-to meals.
I brought the apple peels and cores out to the chickens, King was out in the woods planting English walnut trees, the dog was sniffing the chickens, apples were simmering on the stove.
All is right with the world.
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