The Wreath

       At Christmas, she hung the 

beloved illuminated wreath in 

the living room as tradition. 

 When she died, he hung the 

wreath.  Now the tradition 

continues and their daughter 

hangs the wreath in memory.

        This was written for the Trifecta challenge where we were asked to choose a word and use it three times in 33 words. However, it must be either a verb, noun or adjective and the form of the word cannot change, it must appear exactly the same three times. The chosen word was to be highlighted within the piece. 

Retrospect

    Have you ever realized that it is usually in retrospect that something that sounds like a grand plan at the time is actually fraught with stupidity?  There are some things in my past that are just too damn depressing to keep writing about.  Personally I really would rather not go there.  I would rather write about some of my past exploits and adventures that at the time I should have never undertaken, but didn’t realize until after the fact that perhaps it wasn’t the best idea.

       For example, there is that whacked over idea that once my parents died there place was at the cemetery even though between you, me, and the bed post I KNOW only their remains are there.  Their souls took off to heaven or wherever they go when they drew the last breath.  Technically I can’t follow them to heaven for a visit, so I do the next best thing and march my happy butt out to the cemetery.   My folks loved the twinkle of Christmas lights.  They both used to deck the halls to the hilt so when my mom died it seem appropriate to take a Christmas tree to the cemetery and light it up with Christmas tree lights on Christmas Eve night.  My dad attached huge batteries and had it down to a science so that Mom’s little tree would remain lit most of the night despite the cold which can be a real battery sucker.  After she died, my family would visit the cemetery, light her lights, then head to my Dad’s house for a huge Christmas feast followed by the opening of mountains of presents.  On the way home after the festivities, my husband and I would stop by the cemetery to retrieve the tree.

         After my Dad joined my mom at the cemetery, my husband and I were determined to carry on the tradition.  The only problem was that we were no longer out and about on Christmas Eve.  We would bundle up and take the tree out to the grave site about 5 PM and then go home.  The year my Dad died, I waited till almost bed time Christmas Eve night and decided I would go pick the tree up.  My daughter decided to go with me, and my husband elected to stay home.  To me, up until that point, going to the cemetery was the same as going to my folk’s house to see them.  Maybe a little colder and a little darker, but you get the idea.  It was no big deal.  I pulled into the pitch dark cemetery and drove back to where my parents graves were, parked, and my daughter and I got out and leisurely strolled out to their tombstone in the moonlight as if we didn’t have a care in the world.

  

       I stopped before their stone and with tears in my eyes I wished them both a Merry Christmas again.  As I picked up the tree, I distinctly heard voices say Merry Christmas.  I glanced at my daughter, and she glanced at me.  “Did you hear that?” I asked nervously.  
         Her eyes were as big as saucers as she answered “Yes”.  There was no one else around.  “Mommy?” she said obviously terrified.

          I freaked out, and by the look of my daughter she was on the train to freak town right along with me. A chill ran up my spine.  Holding the tree in one hand, I grabbed her hand with the other and raced hell bent for election through the snow and obstacle course of tombstones to the car.   As we ran we heard other voices whispering “Merry Christmas!”  I can honestly say that the experience scared the living be Je$us out me.  I almost $hit myself.  We got in the car, locked the doors, and sped out of the cemetery as if the hounds of hell were licking at our tires.

         In retrospect, I realized the tree could stay where it was till morning.  For every Christmas since, the tree has remained at the cemetery until Christmas day and when the roads were especially bad and the snow deep, it remained till after New Years.    In retrospect, you locate a few brains, gain a smidgeon of common sense that you previously didn’t possess, and learn not to provoke the bloody ghost of Christmas past until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.

Snapshot

     Once you start school there is a time honored tradition that happens every single year without fail of your entire educational career.  Half way between bleary eyed and bright eyed and bushy tailed, sparkled and shined sporting new clothes, new shoes, and loaded down with backpacks filled to overflowing with pens, notebooks, crayons, and markers the kids stand at attention for that first day of school photo op.

        You tick off everything in your head… lunch money, gym shoes, backpack check! You hope that nothing has been forgotten.  You find the perfect setting.  You know the one where shadows won’t block their smiling faces.  Smile!  Stand up straight!  Move closer together!  They oblige and you capture that moment forever to be compared in years to come with other first days of school.  If you are a trucker’s wife, you document those smiles with your cell phone then send them to your husband so he can share the moment too.

  

      You can hardly fathom how much they have changed from one year to the next.  Time goes by so swiftly!  Wasn’t it only yesterday when summer vacation began?  You say goodbye to carousing half the night and sleeping late, and hello to early mornings.  With a hug and kiss they are on their way, and you return to a silent house.  And so it begins and you know you will treasure these snapshots forever until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.

Favorite Holiday Traditions

     When my mom died, we all felt it was necessary to continue to include her in our Christmas celebrations. She was gone, but definitely not forgotten. My mother loved everything about Christmas. She took great pleasure in decorating the house each year. She loved to gaze at the twinkling lights on the tree.

 

     We would gather at her grave and begin our Christmas celebrations with her often bringing fresh flowers and Christmas balloons. We would decorate her grave much as she had decked the halls of her home. Sometimes we would sing her Christmas carols, while other times we would silently relay our love and Christmas greetings. Some years were snowier than others, and during the day my Dad often would visit the cemetery early to clear a path through the snow to her grave.

     By the time my Dad died, fiber optic trees were all the rage. My husband and I felt it was only appropriate that they both needed a new Christmas tree to celebrate their first Christmas in heaven together. After all, what could be more glorious than celebrating Christmas in heaven listening to angelic choirs sing? I found a small decorated fiber optic tree and my husband insured that it lit up the graveyard that Christmas Eve night.

     It has become tradition to visit my parents at the cemetery on Christmas Eve night. It wouldn’t be Christmas without this small tradition. My mom always joked that her grave would resemble the sorry state of Ebenezer Scrooge’s. I have made it my duty to insure that is never the case. Even now it is decked out with artificial poinsettias and a decorative Santa Claus, and on Christmas Eve like every other year we will put up the tree.

    

     Even though my parents are no longer living, by keeping them apart of my traditions they continue to live within my heart and the hearts of my little family in which they were an important part of. It would be a very blue Christmas indeed without our yearly trek to the cemetery. That is all I have to say until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.

Recollections of First Thanksgivings - BFF 142

     Some of my earliest recollections from Thanksgivings past included not just one huge meal, but several.  Not only did my mother make a huge spread, but I also had three sets of Grandparents to share Thanksgiving with.   Usually, we would have a meal  at home that my mother prepared on Thanksgiving day.  Then we would travel to each of the grandparent’s homes Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.  Turkey, turkey, and even more turkey!!  By the end of it,  you came close to growing feathers and saying “Gobble, Gobble, Gobble!”


        Although I have memories of attending the Thanksgiving festivities of all three sets of Grandparents, my dad’s parent’s celebration always stood out.  For one thing, there were always a lot more people.  I had 5 sets of aunts and uncles at that gathering plus a slew of cousins, with second cousins coming along later on.  

         On holidays long tables were set up end to end down the center of the living room into the master bedroom with chairs lined up on both sides dominating Grandma‘s farmhouse.  Grandma sat on one end of the long table, and Grandpa on the other.   Behind Grandpa there was always another table set up in the master bedroom and all the cousins fought to get to sit alone in the bedroom in that special place of distinction. 
     
    

       The table was set with Grandma’s  best tablecloths, red and clear glass plates,  silverware, and water goblets.  When it was time, we would all gather around that massive table and joined hands much like the Who’s down in  Whoville singing “Count Your Blessings”.   Then Grandpa would lead us all in prayer.  Grandpa always mumbled when he prayed and he was so far away that usually I couldn’t make out what he was saying.  Somehow you would figure out when he was finished by the loud proclamation of “Amen!!  and then we would go single file, out the front door, through the garage, into the kitchen where all the wonderful food awaited.   Usually it was always colder than a witches tit in the Klondike outside, and by the time you got back into the house, the heat from the kitchen steamed up your glasses so you couldn’t see three inches in front of your face.

         Since I was the youngest, I was always finished eating before anyone else and antsy to get up and run around with my cousin.  The only problem with that is that with all the tables and chairs, you couldn’t squeeze a mouse fart out once you were seated.  We got around that too by having a merry ole time crawling under the network of tables to wherever we wanted to go.

     When everyone was finally finished eating, the women retreated into the kitchen to wash dishes and the men set to work taking down the tables.  In their place, a few card tables were erected and quite a few rousing games of Euchre and Yahtzee were played.  Sometimes Grandpa would dig out his home movies and the whole family would gather in the living room to watch.  Other times, everyone would just visit.






       It always amazed me that no matter how many grand kids there were, and there were a G0d’s plenty, Grandma and Grandpa would always give us hugs and kisses when we arrived and when it was time to go home.  They had so much love for each and every one of us and instilled in me the importance of family, thankfulness of blessings, G0d, and faith.

       Sadly those long lost Thanksgivings are only a memory as many of the key players have passed on from this life.  Their smiles and laughter will never be forgotten, and I can still hear the family singing “Count Your Blessings” in my mind.  I can only hope that I can instill the same sense of family, love, and tradition in my own children.  Until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a truckers wife.