Which Way's Up

We have just returned from a four-day jaunt to North Carolina to visit with my dad–a visit that was, according to him, long overdue. Five months overdue, to be exact. It was my first visit back “home” since my mom died, though we did spend time with Dad at the beach in June.

Dad, do you remember that? Because we’re still thinking about Bubba’s.

Was I avoiding that first return home? A little. In fairness, I’d also had knee surgery that took away my ability to drive for 8 weeks, and then this and then that and, well, yes…it was five months to the day since I’d crossed the threshold to my parents’ home. By then, the thought of returning had become a ball of anxiety because what would it be like?

OF COURSE, I love seeing my dad. We understand each other’s daily cadence and needs and he lets me win at Wheel of Fortune. On the flip side, this would be my very first visit that didn’t include time with Mom. There would be no long days spent at her bedside looking for the smallest signs that, in the end, everything would be okay. Their house would look completely different as Mom’s “things” were slowly finding new homes whether through donations or gifts or, simply, tossed out.

It’s not that this isn’t a very natural process that I understand. It’s that the lack of Mom’s things is another reminder that that years-long hope that she might come again waned until it was gone.

I spent a lot of time wondering how I would feel when I saw a closet emptied of her clothes or a bathroom emptied of her primping products or the table next to her favorite chair emptied of her notebooks, tissues, nail clippers or anything she might need within arm’s reach.

How would I feel walking into a home that she would never be in again?

It was both easier and harder than I thought.

Easier? Yes. There was less stress as I was not pulled between enjoying my dad’s company (at home) and enjoying my mom’s (at the nursing home). There was less stress as the waiting game was finally over. Mom died. We no longer had to sit wondering when that was going to happen as the question floated around the room like a muggy cloud. We no longer had to flinch each time the phone rang because, Was this that phone call?

We know, now, how we are doing instead of wondering how we would do upon getting that phone call or if we’d be brave at the funeral home or if we just keep on crying forever and ever.

Harder? Also, yes. I avoided scanning the house lest I catch a glimpse of a new box–a box that would contain Mom’s ashes. I spotted it anyway, by mistake. I spent the better part of two days visiting with Mom, in another way, as I cleaned out her dresser and her craft room. There is something very personal about going through someone’s dresser especially if that someone reserved two entire drawers for memories.

I found piles of notes, stashed away, that my siblings and me had written Mom throughout our lives. I found cards given to her from my Dad. I found about a gajillion programs from weddings, funerals, awards ceremonies, and graduations. I found newspaper clippings dating all the way back to when Mom was in high school and had earned a blurb in the Addison (NY) Post.

Endless “moments” that Mom had tossed into her drawers, creating a treasure chest for whoever was tasked with the adventure.

I brought home less than more. I’m not really sure what to do with the letters and trinkets and photos that now sit in a pile on our kitchen table. Do I toss them in my own drawers for my own children to find later on their own treasure hunt? Or do I do the hard work of Swedish Death Cleaning for them, now? I think the first option will be much more fun.

As Mom’s dementia moved in, she would often buy random items and then toss the shopping bags into a corner of the bedroom, never to be thought of again. I asked my dad if he wanted me to tackle th at corner and he replied with an impish grin, “Nah, I’m leaving that for the estate sale.”

Um, what now?

I asked, later, for some clarification on this “estate sale.” I’m happy to report that he’s not planning on needing an estate sale quite yet, but…the idea of just “Leaving that for the estate sale” is a pretty great way to avoid tackling something you’re not quite ready to tackle yet.

I may implement that proclamation in my own home, as well.

My husband is a certified Marriott whore, which means that whenever we travel, if I don’t pick a Marriott property, I have to endure endless mumbles about how he isn’t earning any points. On this trip, I did not pick a Marriott property.

After three years of hunkering down in the area’s Residence Inn, I decided we deserved something better than its musty smells and outdated decor. I also wanted to find a place that I would feel safe in when traveling solo, and the Residence Inn…is not that. I thought this was an ideal visit to test out a new place, and MY GOD DID I WIN THE LOTTERY.

We stayed at Tanglewood Farms B&B and it was glorious. We loved so many things about this property but more than anything, this:

We woke up Thursday morning to a very light tapping noise that could easily have been mistaken for dripping water. It was not dripping water. It was this little lady, sent ahead by her squad to see if we might be serving breakfast on the patio. OBVIOUSLY, we immediately grabbed what we had (Cheez-Its) and obliged.

As soon as the first cracker hit the ground, a dozen other hens appeared for a snack. These gals were well-fed and my husband completely forgot about his Marriott status. Win, win.

Tanglewood Farm is a working horse farm filled with gorgeous gardens and owned by a pastry chef’s family. We were greeted by chickens, horses, barn cats, and homemade poptarts. While it sits just down the road from the Southern Pines’ business district, it is really in the middle of nowhere, tucked within the Sandhills’ horse country.

Needless to stay, we cannot wait to go back.

And, while digging through Mom’s dresser, I found a few trinkets from her days as a volunteer at the Devon Horse Show, which I happily turned over to Tanglewood Farm to add to the decor. I love the idea that, when we visit again, there may be just a few added touches from our lives that have been passed on to Lindsay and Randy.

Or maybe not. No need to keep anything that doesn’t quite “fit.”