Like Nana, Like Jessica

I've shared my experiences with Nana visiting me since her death here and here. She visited me again last night/today.

Background: Last night's dinner was Grandmother themed. No, it wasn't all soft foods, suitable for the denture crowd. Dinner consisted of my Grannycago's Grilled Chicken (That's my Gardner Grandma, who lived in Chicago. She hated that name, so I loved it even more.), Nana's Rice, and Christopher's YaYa's Green Beans. My dinner was heavenly and the leftovers are even better.  Doesn't this meal look divine?

About midnight, I went to sleep and had a dream about being at Nana's house with both of my parents for the last time. We were cleaning out the house to put it on the market, just as we did almost exactly 12 months ago. In my dream, we were having breakfast when in the door walks Nana. We had a lovely visit, got caught up on the last four years since her death, and then she left.

Okay, now you know the context of what I got up to today.

You should also know the following story about Nana:

About 20 years ago, when Nana was still working at NationsBank (now Bank of America), I would call her almost nightly to check in with her. Sometimes our chats were short and sometimes they were long. Nana was never a complainer, so it struck with me some concern when she began complaining in all of our calls about how much pain she was in. Every night, she would tell me how badly her feet hurt after work and she just didn't know what to do. Maybe, she would say, it was time to retire (she was almost 80). This went on for at least a couple of weeks. It was hard to hear about all the pain she was in because I was in DC and there was nothing I could do. One night, she got on the phone and just couldn't stop apologizing and telling me how embarrassed and ashamed she was, but didn't mention the pain in her feet. I didn't understand and couldn't imagine what was causing all this embarrassment and shame. Finally, she explained that as she was taking off her shoes that night, a bunch of balled up tissue paper fell out of one and she realized that both shoes had tissue paper stuffed into the toe of each shoe. Her feet were in so much pain because her size 7 triple narrow feet were essentially crammed into size 5 triple narrow shoes.

This morning, I was rushing around getting ready for work and decided that the only shoes that would work for today were some super cute black patent leather flats that also hurt my feet so badly I can barely walk by the end of the day. The things we do for fashion.

I slipped on the flats, looked down and saw what I thought was a piece of white paper towel peaking out of the top of the left shoe. I took it back off and bent down to remove the paper towel only to discover that it wasn't paper towel. It was a huge hard piece of grayish cardboard stuck in the shoes to help them keep their shape. My feet were being pinched by this cardboard.

Needless to say, I couldn't stop laughing. Like Nana, like Jessica.

Then I looked up, thanked Nana for the visit, and told her I look forward to next time.

Goodbye to Nana's House

I dropped off my signed and notarized closing documents to FedEx today as did Dave. The closing is Wednesday. I've spoken to all of the utility companies to have my name removed from the accounts. I no longer have to remember the ADT security code. I sold the kitchen table and chairs last Thursday. Now, the house is completely empty.

We won't be at the closing. It'll just be the buyer, the real estate agent and the title company.

When the final date was set, I thought about booking a ticket to Florida to go say good-bye to the house one last time. I know it sounds silly because, more than anything, I should be relieved. I should be happy to have this chapter of my life closed and this weight off my shoulders.

Owning a home that none of us lived in has been a pain in the ass. There have been numerous, costly maintenance projects, including a new roof. Each trip to Florida since Nana died (I think there have been 8) has been work-filled and cost far more than I had budgeted per trip. I can honestly say that in the past 3 1/2 years, I have not gone to the beach, seen my friends, or done anything that was "vacation like." Each trip has been full of emotional turmoil and has been much more difficult than my optimistic self believed it could be.

So one might think I would be over-the-moon with joy about being rid of this house. Part of me is.

The other part of me is sad and bursts into tears when I think too much about it.

Letting go of the house is the final piece of saying good-bye to Nana.

Her house was a huge part of my childhood. It was my first home. I was born early and my parents couldn't take me back to their adults-only apartment, but hadn't found a new place to live yet. So we moved into Nana's house.

Although for most of my life, Nana lived with her second husband, my step-grandfather, the Reverend, in his house, she always kept her home. And her house was where she kept everything that was important to her. Letters we sent her. Extra special gifts. Family heirlooms. Awards from the bank she worked at for forty years. Thank you gifts from her best customers. Her most treasured possessions lived at her house.

Although when we'd visit, we often stayed at the Reverend's house, when I got older, I used to run away to her house and stay there. I guess I started doing that when I could drive. At some point almost every night after dinner, I'd grab her car keys and tell her I was going to her house and I'd spend the night there.

Why did I do that? Her house was air-conditioned was my excuse, but it wasn't the truth and I'm sure she knew it. The truth was that although my step-grandfather was a minister, he was the meanest, scariest man I've ever known. He was physically and verbally abusive to her. He never hit her in front of us, but he'd belittle her until the cows came home. I didn't like being yelled at by him (or hear him belittle Nana) and I didn't want to stick around and risk anything else. Mom would stay though. I think she did it because she knew he wouldn't be physically abusive to Nana in my mom's presence. It was her small way of protecting Nana when Nana wouldn't (or couldn't) leave.

Nana's house was a refuge to me and always felt like a museum of my family. My mom's wedding dress and the mother-of-the-bride dress Nana wore were preserved in the front closet, as were the prom dresses Nana carefully made her. I would take out the dresses and imagine wearing them to my own prom and wedding. More than once (including as recently as last Christmas), I tried on my mom's veil. Nana even saved my baby clothes and other dresses she made me. My uncle's boy scout paraphernalia and submarine models were there. There were family photos going back to my great grandparents and scrapbooks with all kinds of hidden treasures. Nana took great care to leave notes in all of her chotchkies telling the backstory of each item. Many of the books Mom read as a kid were still there at the house - the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Little Women, all kinds of Golden Books. Sure, they were aimed at a younger demographic with lower reading skills, but I loved looking through them and the Nancy Drew books would keep me up all night long. I could take a bath in pink bathtub (in the pink bathroom, of course) and sleep in the french provincial double bed. I'd make breakfast in the avocado green kitchen.

Nana built her house in 1968 (when she was 50) for $10,000. She and my real grandfather had purchased the property in 1956, shortly after they moved to Crystal Beach, and he dug a well on it, but they were unable to build the house they dreamed of before he died in 1961. Nana always told me how she'd come home from work at the bank, take my uncle, who was still in high school (my mom was in college), over to the house and they'd hang up sheets to indicate where she wanted the walls. Then they'd bring furniture over to arrange in each room to make sure it all fit properly before the walls were built. She was so exacting in everything she did, I can completely picture her doing this.

Initially the house was pink with a white tile roof and we always referred to it as the "pink house." Nana hated that and always insisted her house was beige, so when she repainted it about 20 years ago or so, she painted it beige. I always liked the pink better. It was just more "Florida."

Frankly, it's hard for me to imagine building my own house now as a single woman, much less having done it in 1968. Women just didn't do that back then. I've always admired how she held onto her dream and made it become a reality. I've also always admired how she always held steadfast in holding onto her house. Even though she only lived in it for the three years before she married my step-grandfather and then a few years after he died, during those almost 40 years, her house always remained the prettiest, best-kept house on the block. She spent hours and hours working in her yard and keeping her plants in perfect condition. She took great pride in it. Of course, it also gave her a good reason to get out of my step-grandfather's house.

Before I left in October, I left notes all around the house for the future buyer telling him or her which light switches controlled the outside lights, which ones controlled which outlets, which fuse switches controlled what, and other useful tips about the house. Not about flaws in the house, because there aren't any flaws in the house. Sure, the avocado green kitchen and appliances are outdated, as is the pink bathroom, and the rose print wool carpet, but all the original appliances still work well and the carpet is in incredible condition.

Now the house belongs to someone else and he will update it and create his own memories in it. I hope the house brings him as much joy as it has brought my family for the past 44 years. It's a good house.

Nana Visited Me Again

Yes, I know that sounds a bit crazy, but let me explain.

Two weeks ago, my mom, dad and I went to Crystal Beach to finish cleaning out Nana's house because we had just put it on the market and I wanted to be able to finish that project on my schedule, not a buyer's schedule. Plus, I thought it would sell better if it was empty. Oh, yes, you read that correctly. BOTH of my parents, who have been divorced for 30 years, went to Florida together to help me with this chore. But that's not what we're here to discuss.

One of the "must do's" while we were in Crystal Beach was to attend Sunday morning church at Crystal Beach Community Church. As a reminder, my step-grandfather was the first minister at CBCC, Nana was the second member of the church, the pews in the church are there due to Nana's efforts and sizable donation after my real grandfather died in 1961, my mom grew up in the church, my parents were married there in 1970, and I was baptized there in 1971.

As always, we sat in Nana's pew. It's actually the pew that has the plaque with my grandfather, Jesse Paulk's name on it, but I always refer to it as Nana's pew. It's the fifth pew from the front on the right side. I suppose there are other pews to sit in, but I've never sat in them. Ever.

Growing up, I remember attending church with Nana each Sunday when we visited. It wasn't optional. We just went. Nana never missed a Sunday and we never missed a Sunday with her. Without fail, at some point during the church service, she'd always reach over and take my hand. She'd wrap her little hand around mine and just hold it as long as I'd let her. Sometimes she'd pull my hand onto her lap and pat my hand with her free hand as she held it.

Nana's been gone for 3 1/2 years and in that time, I don't think I've ever felt her presence. I've seen her in dreams, but I've never felt her presence. Until that day two weeks ago.

The first hymn on Sunday was "Lord, I Want to be a Christian." As I was standing and attempting to sing along, I could see Nana and suddenly felt her presence. On my left side, I felt her right hand wrap around my left one. I could feel the softness of her skin, the delicateness of her hand, and the warmth and coolness that always permeated from her skin simultaneously.

My eyes welled up with tears, as I tried to subtly wipe them away. Needless to say, it didn't work. I spent most of the ceremony crying.

I cried because I miss Nana and because it was the last time I'll ever be in Crystal Beach. It was the last time I'll ever be in the only church I've ever felt comfortable in. Three and a half years after her death, it all felt really real and final and I just kept thinking about how soon, there would be no one in Crystal Beach who remembered her and it would be as though she never existed. I also cried because I felt guilty for having failed to take care of getting her name on one of the (almost) floor to ceiling windows on each of the walls.

Throughout the service, I couldn't shake the feeling of Nana's hand wrapped around mine. It was comforting as I dealt with the grief I still felt.

After the service was over, I was taking a picture of the plaque on Nana's pew and Mom was explaining the story of the pews to some new church members when the minister walked up to greet me.

The plaque on Nana's pew.

Pastor Susie welcomed me back to church, asked about the house, and then asked if I'd seen Nana's window.

What??? Nana's window?! No. I hadn't seen it.

And then she walked me over to it. Sure enough, there was Nana's name. Exactly as she'd want it.

In an instant, I was sobbing again. The only words I knew to say were "thank you." I can't remember the last time I felt so much gratitude.

I had dropped the ball and not gotten back to the church with how we wanted Nana's name on the window and when we'd be down to dedicate it, but there it was. Nana would never be forgotten. And she really was in church with us that morning, just as she would be forever. And she really held my hand.

The bottom pane of Nana's window.

I'm On My Way to Nana's House and What Do I See?

Remember when you were a kid and your family took long road trips? In between the fighting in the backseat with your brother, you'd play "I'm On My Way to Grandma's House and What Do I See?" Of course you do.

Just in case you don't, the way it worked was you named things you each saw, but you also had to name everything that had been named and you couldn't repeat anything. For example:

Dave: I'm on my way to Grandma's house and I see a car.
Me: I'm on my way to Grandma's house and I see a car and a skunk.
Dave: You did not see a skunk!
Me: Yes I did! I did see a skunk!
Mom: Kids! Don't make me turn this car around!
Dave: I'm on my way to Grandma's house and I see a car, a skunk, and the cop that pulled mom over for speeding. Officer, are you gonna arrest my mom?
Mom: Nobody's getting arrested. Now behave.

Everybody played, right?

Well, today, I'm driving to Nana's house in Florida with my dad. This is the final trip. Ever. Seriously. During the three hours we were in Kentucky, we saw some sights:

• 1 Oscar Mayer Weinermobile
• 1 horse-drawn Amish buggy
• 3 fake dinosaurs encouraging us to visit Dinosaur World
• 1 ambulance hauling a power boat
• 1 M-22 sticker on a car with Kentucky plates
• 2 or 3 "Hell is Real" signs
• 1 mattress by the side of the road (a man-made rest stop, perhaps?)
• 12 airplane wings on the back of 12 tractor-trailers and
• Chester's Chicken to Go at the local Exxon station in Oak Grove, Kentucky

The airplane wings were the most interesting because they had to each be close to 50 feet long and weren't traveling in a caravan. They were each separate with many miles between them. They also each had a police escort.

Imagine my disappointment with Tennessee when we saw nothing of interest. Tennessee, I expect you to do better upon my return in a few days.

Fortunately, Kennesaw, Georgia saved the night by allowing me to do all my Christmas shopping at the local Chevron station.

No need to thank me. It's the least I could do for the people I love. Yes, clearly, it's the very least.

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!

Major Little Merry Sunshine Announcement

After much thoughtful reflection and consideration for the impact this decision has not only on myself, but on all of my friends and family, I have decided that I will not be making Nana's Fruitcake this Christmas. There will be no fruitcake at my housewarming party. No fruitcake as gifts. No fruitcake on Christmas.

Nana's Fruitcake has been made annually by Nana, my mom, or me for at least 50 years, but it will not be made this year. Last year, I made 25 cakes or so and gave most as gifts. I thought I'd written about it, but it seems I haven't written about my Fruitcake-capades since 2009, the year I first made fruitcake myself.

For me, making Nana's Fruitcakes the last two years has been a labor of love and it's kept Nana involved in Christmas, even though she's no longer physically here to celebrate with us.

This year, however, I'm simply not feeling it. Actually, I'm not feeling Christmas at all. I did a little decorating for Christmas last night, in preparation for the house-warming party I'm having this weekend, but I'm really just not feeling it. To be clear, I'm psyched to have friends over, but not about Christmas. I listen to holiday music on the radio in my car, hoping to get into the mood, but so far, the whole Christmas Spirit thing eludes me. I have Christmas cards to send, but haven't been able to get motivated to write them (it's actually a problem because I also haven't sent change of address cards and quite a few people don't know I've moved). I've got some Christmas presents, but can't begin to think about what I've got and where I still need a few gifts. And wrapping and mailing is just not in the realm of possibilities, at least not this week. Hopefully next week. Otherwise, I'm going to get in trouble for missing the day entirely.

I'm sure I'll feel differently when I get to Florida for what I'm fairly certain will be the last Christmas ever in Crystal Beach. I'll probably wish I could have gotten motivated when I realize that mom didn't leave any of Nana's Fruitcake in the freezer when she came to Chicago. And then I'll swear I will never fail to make fruitcake again.

But 2011 will go down as the year with none of Nana's Fruitcake.

Favorite Closing Day Moment

You'd think that my favorite moment yesterday was when I signed the 7,971,052nd form and was told I was done or when I was officially handed the keys to my new home or when I walked into my home for the first time as the owner or even when the doorbell rang and Tim, Michael, and Wini were standing at the door with wine and champagne to toast my home. And you'd be wrong.

My favorite moment happened about an hour after closing when I ran over to Chase Bank in downtown Lake Forest to deposit the money I received back from my closing payment (I had overpaid by a little).

I pulled into the drive-thru exhausted, just wanting to run my errand, and get back to the condo. I was rushing, thinking about the huge to do list that awaited me, and not really in the present when I sent my money through the little machine and waited for the teller at the other end to send me my receipt.

About a minute or two later, I heard a voice and saw a face on the video screen...

"Ms. Gardner?"

"Yes?"

"Did it all work out? Did you close on your condo? Are you a homeowner now?"

I was stopped cold with surprise. This was the teller who prepared my cashier's check on Wednesday with my down-payment. When she saw me on Wednesday, I was a mess of emotions. My mortgage broker, Bob Degen, had sent me over to Chase to get the money for my down-payment (but probably also so I'd get some air and focus on something else as I was in a panic), while he worked his magic to make sure all the final i's were dotted and t's were crossed, even though we had some last minute problems. While I was at Chase, I ran into a co-worker and we chatted about my condo while this delightful teller prepared the cashier's check.

"Yes! I am! It all worked out and I officially own my own home! I can't believe you remembered! Thank you so much!"

"Of course I remembered, it's not every day I get to help make someone's dream of being a homeowner come true. Congratulations! I'm really happy for you and look forward to seeing you in the bank more often."

"Thank you! You'll definitely see me soon! Have a great day!"

You know, I've banked Chase in Arlington Heights since I moved back to Chicago in 2000. My family has banked there since 1975 and I opened my first checking accounts there in 1989 when I went to college (of course, back then, it was a predecessor to Chase). At no point have I ever walked into Chase in Arlington Heights or pulled into the drive-thru and been greeted by name. I've only continued to bank there because my entire family banks there and that made it convenient.

But my first day of living in Lake Forest/Lake Bluff and the bank teller greets me by name and takes a sincere interest in me. It was my favorite moment of the day.

As I sit here and type up this story, all day long, I've wanted to call Nana and tell her all about my new home, but it just hit me that I didn't need to call her (even though I obviously can't) because she came to me. She was a banker for 40 years at what's now Bank of America. She greeted each of her customers by name and remembered their life stories - their kids, spouses, homes, births, deaths, new jobs, etc. Clearly the lovely woman at Chase was channeling Nana.

And that's why it was the best moment of my day.

It's Been 2 Years

This is how I'll always remember Nana.

I was standing in my friend Danica's living room when my phone rang. It was Sunday, July 12, 2009 at about 3:15pm. Danica had just asked me how Nana was doing and I was telling her that after a rough few weeks, where we never knew if she'd make it through the night, I believed Nana was stable and would hold on for just a few more days until I could arrive in Florida on July 15th to celebrate her 93rd birthday with her on the 18th.

I looked at caller id, realized it was Mom and ignored it. I'd spoken with Mom about 2 hours earlier and she was headed over to the nursing home. I'd asked her to call me so I could talk with Nana. Talk is not exactly the right word. She couldn't talk anymore. Thinking back, I'm not sure she'd spoken in a month or so at that point. So I'd do the talking. I'd tell her how much I loved her and couldn't wait to see her in just a few days. We'd celebrate her birthday with cake and candles.

As I pulled out of Danica's driveway, about 15 minutes later to head home, I called Mom back. She was at the nursing home, but I couldn't speak to Nana because she had passed away at 3:10pm ET (about 90 minutes earlier).

Nana had died.

Those words didn't really sink in. I just got to work. I knew what I had to do and I did it. At that point, real tears were probably a few days away. I had to work with Crystal Beach Community Church and Batesville Presbyterian Church to arrange two funeral services. I got the obituary edited and submitted to The Panolian (Batesville, Mississippi's newspaper), St. Petersburg Times and Tampa Tribune. I wrote the eulogy I would give twice. I worked with Dave to get him to Florida and then to Mississippi before returning to Michigan. I had to get Mom from Florida to Mississippi and back to Florida. And I had to get from Chicago to Florida to Dallas to Mississippi and finally home. I still owe my cousin Elesha huge for what she did to make it possible for me to attend Nana's burial.

The rest of the story is told elsewhere on Little Merry Sunshine (and here) and over at Remembering Frances. That's not really what this post is about.

Two years have at once flown by and dragged at a snail's pace.

I've closed Nana's estate. I've figured out how to get out of bed again, be happy, and not miss her every single waking moment. I've changed careers. Some days I don't miss her at all.

Don't misunderstand me, I miss her. A lot. I miss her smile. I miss her Southern drawl. I miss hearing "Jessica, you're my favorite granddaughter" even though I was her only granddaughter. I miss her pretty delicate hands. I miss her fingers intertwined with mine as she held my hand. I miss her remembering every single detail of life (yep, that's where I get it from). I miss receiving birthday cards that were made for little girls when I was in my 30s. I miss the boxes of grapefruit off her tree and the fruitcake she made with too much bourbon because she didn't drink and didn't understand that the axiom "if a little is more, a lot is better" wasn't really true, although when it came to bourbon in fruitcake, it actually was. I miss her weekly handwritten letters. I miss her telling me she loved me "a bushel and a peck." Holidays are different.

But she's not really gone. Well, she is. Obviously. But I feel her presence and sometimes even hear her voice. I can hear it now as I type. Sometimes I can even smell her. Once, I saw her. Feeling, hearing and even smelling her typically only lasts for a brief second before it disappears, but I'm certain in those moments, she's here. The time I saw her was in a dream, but I have no doubt she'd been here that night too.

I've thought a lot over the past two years about what I'd say to her if I had just one more minute with her. I've tried to figure out what one question I'd ask or what one profound thing I'd say one last time. But after giving it great thought, I'd tell her the same thing she said to us each night before bed or each time we'd get off the phone.

Good night. God Bless. I love you. Sweet dreams, Nana.

Little Merry Sunshine Changed My Life

A post caught my eye on Facebook this afternoon. It simply said "How has your blog changed your life?" and had a link to a blog post titled "My Blog Changed My Life" on Blogher.com. I often read Blogher blogs and always enjoy what I read.

I was particularly struck by this particular blog, however, because until the author got to the part about getting married and becoming a mom, the post could have been written by me. As I drove home from Lake Forest I thought about the post and pondered the question, "How has Little Merry Sunshine changed my life?"

Simply put, Little Merry Sunshine has not only changed my life, but it saved my life.

When I started writing, four years ago next Friday, I was unsure about my ability to write. I had no idea if I'd stick with it. I kept the first few posts secured, only opening up Little Merry Sunshine to those I trusted the most and who I believed would tell me honestly if it was even worth continuing or if I should just shut up and quit thinking I could write. They cheered me on, so opened LMS up to a larger audience.

I wrote about what inspired me, my adventures in gardening, lust, Betsey and Ross, politics, sports, family, and much more. I was nervous about opening myself up because I worried about people not liking what I wrote. Those who enjoy my writing and Little Merry Sunshine have stuck around, visit regularly and even subscribe to the blog. Those who don't, haven't been back. Oh well. But I was worried, and I still worry, about putting my vulnerabilities out there for all the world to see. It's a little like standing naked for inspection. I can't hide my flaws and I can't hide from the criticism, although trust me when I say the loudest critic is always me. But the best parts of me also have the opportunity to be viewed and celebrated.


Some people think bloggers are a joke, but I disagree. In spite of what some people may think, I frequently censor myself and have tossed out more blog posts than I care to think about. Some were partial posts, but others were complete and ready for publication. I tossed them out because they were either too personal and I was afraid to reveal so much or because the posts didn't live up to my standards.

Through blogging, I've had some of my beliefs challenged by people I respect and others challenged by some people just looking to pick a fight. I've engaged with the respectful ones and enjoyed the opportunities to grow. I've ignored the haters.

I've also gotten to know people I would never have known otherwise and I've reconnected with people I had long ago lost touch with. I discovered that Little Merry Sunshine has a far greater reach than I ever imagined, when I was contacted just last weekend by a former flame telling me he's a regular reader of LMS. The verdict is still out about how I feel about that. Honestly, I had sealed that can of worms and stored it neatly away and wasn't really prepared to have it abruptly opened again.

Little Merry Sunshine has been recognized by the Chicago Tribune and numerous published authors read it.

I write when I'm over-the-moon happy, but I've also written from the depths of overwhelming grief. When Nana died, writing Little Merry Sunshine (here and here) and Remembering Frances kept me going when I couldn't get out of bed and no one knew about it. And then when my heart got broken a month later, I wrote to get through that grief too. To say Little Merry Sunshine saved my life during the difficult times, is no exaggeration. Believe me, writing is

Little Merry Sunshine has made me more confident. It has helped me deal with my demons and even stop caring what others think so much. Friends and family have told me they are proud of me for some of the things I've written and the positions I've taken. I've become clearer on some of my lifelong dreams and dealt with giving others up.

If you haven't tried writing, give it a shot. It's cathartic and fun and you never know, you may just find a new passion.

Will & Kate Wanna Live Like Me!

So I hear that Prince William and his fiance Kate Middleton want to live like "normal" people and have decided to forgo the traditional royal staff. For comparisons sake, Prince Charles has a staff of 150 personal servants. Honestly, how does he manage with such a small staff? Oh, sorry, I digress.

I think it's terrific that Will and Kate want to be like me. How about we trade places? They can live like me and I'll try to live the life they lead.

Certainly, life can't get much more normal than mine...

• I make my own bed.
• I do my own laundry.
• I scrub toilets, scoop cat litter, wash windows, vacuum, dust, mop the floor, and do dishes.
• I run a successful business.
• I sit on two boards and spend a good amount of time volunteering.
• I clip coupons, do my own grocery shopping, and my own cooking.
• I live on a (tight) budget and space out bills during the month so I always have plenty of money.
• I use Freecycle where one person's trash really is another's treasure.
• I take care of my mom and used to help take care of Nana.
• I shop the clearance rack and almost never wear designer or pay full price for clothes (or much else).
• I drive an 11 year old car (well, okay, it's practically new, but still) and before that, I drove a 15 year old car.
• I shovel my own snow, mow my own lawn, and plant my vegetable garden to live healthier and keep my grocery bills down. I also personally weed said garden.
• When I go to a concert or sporting event, I rarely have "great" seats and certainly never a reserved box just for me (although, I'm open to it).
• Paparazzi never follow me around and I don't have a stylist to make sure I am never a fashion "don't" (and if you could have seen me the last 2 weeks, trust me you'd say I needed a stylist).
• I fly like cattle on mass market airlines, always in the economy class and I take public transportation.
• If I ever get married, I will have a very simple ceremony and honeymoon. Me, my fiance, and a minister or justice of the peace on a beach is my style.
• I even write my own blog, write my own Tweets, and communicate personally with my friends on Facebook.

The only thing I have staff for (and it's not even regular staff) is to wake me up in the morning when I've had an especially long night or cannot miss something super early in the morning. But most days, I have to set my own alarm clock.

Will & Kate just let me know when you'd like to change lives. I'm happy to loan out mine for awhile. Otherwise, please stop pretending that you live like normal people.

I'm not complaining. I love my life. Most days. Just like most people, I think. I just think it's funny that two people who obviously know nothing about how most of the world lives (and I realize that I live far better than most of the world) think they are "normal" by forgoing an army of personal servants to do everything from change the roll of toilet paper to fly their personal plane.

All of this said, I'd venture to guess that when Will and Kate takeover my life, they'll be pleased with the assortment of china and silver I have. I seem to inherited an unreal amount of china sets and silver services. Where they all came from, I have no idea. But they'd only have to eat on the same dishes and use the same flatware once every couple of weeks.

My Favorite Christmas Gifts From Nana

As I work to clean out her house and must decide what goes where and to whom and what is garbage, I obviously can't help but think about the life Nana lived. And especially today, on Christmas Eve, I can't help but think about all the wonderful gifts, both tangible and intangible, she gave me over the years.

When I was a kid, Nana made many of my clothes and they were appropriately 1970s stylish (and now you know why there aren't too many pics of me from the 1970s on LMS). Each year, however, I'd receive a very special dress for Christmas that she and my mom would have made together. That was no small feat, considering we lived in Chicago and Nana lived in Florida. The dresses were exquisitely sewn and always fit me to a T. My favorite a red velvet knee length dress with a white lace bib. I can still remember wearing it and feeling like the prettiest girl in the world (with a horrible Dorothy Hamill haircut).

A number of years later, either while I was in college or shortly after I graduated and was living in Washington DC, we were celebrating Christmas in Batesville, MS with all the extended family. All of Nana's sisters were there and all of their kids, grandkids, and maybe even a great-grandkid. There must have been 50 or more of us. Anyway, we were sitting around the tree on Christmas morning and everyone was opening their gifts. Nana handed Mom, Dave, and me each an envelope and when we opened it, we discovered that she had given each of us our own cemetery plot in Batesville, Mississippi! On top of that, she had also purchased one for my dad. Even though my parents had been divorced for 10 years or so, clearly indicating they didn't want to be together during this lifetime, she seemed to believe they wanted to spend eternity lying next to each other. I love her optimism. Unfortunately, none of us wants to be buried in Batesville (I plan to be cremated and have my ashes turned into diamonds and distributed to my loved ones. Yes, you're on the list. You're welcome.)

My favorite gift, however, arrived in 2002. Nana had just gone blind and was fighting to prove that although she couldn't see, she remained just as independent and capable as she'd ever been. Needless to say, she fought hard. 85 years of taking care of everyone wasn't going to end just because she couldn't see.

Just before church on Christmas Eve, Nana came down stairs holding 3 check boxes and asked me to wrap them. This had always been our routine and this year was no different. She would hand me gifts, tell me for whom each gift was meant, and I would wrap them without ever peeking. Frankly, the boxes felt empty, but I dared not say a word. I carefully wrapped and tagged the boxes and gave them back to her in the order she gave them to me.

The next morning, after gifts had been opened, Nana, pulled out the three boxes and beaming with pride, correctly passed them out. Mom, Dave, and I each opened our boxes and burst out laughing. You could see the look of distress as the pride rushed from her face. What could possibly be so gut-wrenching funny about money, I'm sure she wondered.

Having worked in a bank for 40 years, Nana could write a check blind and she had. The only problem was that rather than writing us checks that we could cash, she wrote out the checks on deposit slips. Had we overlaid the deposit slip onto the check and held it up to the light, all of the information would have proven to have been placed correctly on the check, but the "checks" were, of course, uncashable in that form.

As soon as we explained what she'd done and how much we appreciated her gesture, she joined in on the laugh. I think I still have my 2002 Christmas "check" somewhere. In fact, it was the last gift she gave me completely on her own without my mom's assistance.

Letters to Nana

Today as I was working on cleaning out Nana's house (it seems like a never-ending process), I found two letters, one each from Dave and me, she'd saved for almost 30 years.

First mine. To set it up, I typed it in 1985, when I was a high shool freshman. I took typing as an elective my first semester and it looks like I typed it at school.

November 3, 1985

Dear Nana,

How are you? I'm fine. School is a lot of fun! I really like it. My classes are pretty interesting and my teachers aren't bad either. My favorite classes are French 1 and Geometry Fast. I'm getting an A in French and a B in Geometry, but it's 2% points from an A. I was pretty happy about the rest of my grades too. They got me on the
honor roll.

David's were just as good as mine, if not better. He made the honor roll too. He got straight B's, which is about what I got my first nine weeks in junior high. He was pretty proud. Soccer is over for the fall season. Now he's playing basketball. He's pretty good at it too. Winter soccer starts sometime next month. He's looking forward to it.

Mom starts work tomorrow, and is looking forward to it, I think. I know she is nervous, but she will do fine. I know I'm looking forward to it. Sometimes we get on each others nerves. I know she is going to do a great job in commercial real estate. I'm really proud of my mom, she always does a great job in whatever she tries to do. It isn't whether or not people like what she does, it's whether or not she keeps trying until someone realizes that she has good ideas. My mom is not a quitter. She keeps working hard for what she believes in. I'm very proud of her!

Marching band is now over for the fall season. It's very cold and no one likes marching in the cold. At our last competition, we received 4th place for marching and music out of 11 bands that were there. We got 1st place out of 180 marching units for festival spirit, which we didn't even work on. It was a fall festival for the town of Sycamore, IL. We won because of our wonderful use of colors. Our school colors are brown and orange, so we all had on brown and orange and had lots of festival spirit!

Love,

Jessica

Obviously, then, like now, I wasn't afraid to say exactly what I was thinking.

David's letter was written 11 years later and was a postcard from Hawaii. If I remember correctly, this was when he was living in San Francisco and he and his roommates flew to Hawaii for a last-minute getaway. My favorite part is that rather than addressing it "Mrs. Frances Paulk" at her post office box, he simply addressed it "Nana" at her PO box.

Nana,

I knew I got a postcard for you. I cleaned my room today and found it. I'm sorry I didn't send it from Hawaii. I went to this spot. The picture doesn't do it justice. And it's too bad you can't see the trail that takes you out to this point. That was just as amazing as the point. It was very narrow and surrounded by a thick rainforest.

I love you Nana.

David

She didn't save all the letters we sent, so I guess these especially touched
her. I know they touched me reading them today.

The House That Built My Mom

Right after Christmas, my Aunt Dixie died. She was Nana's last living sister. It wasn't entirely unexpected; she'd been doing poorly last July at Nana's funeral and pretty much went straight downhill from there.

I'll be honest, Aunt Dixie's death was bittersweet to me. On the one hand, she was the last of Nana's sisters and the last of the Greatest Generation in our family. It would not be an understatement to say she was the matriarch (or maybe more accurate to say she thought she was). Her home in Batesville, Mississippi was the gathering spot for family celebrations, tragedies, and everything in between. On the other hand, she had publicly blamed me for my parents divorce when I was 12 and I'd spent the past 25 years or so staying out of her way. As sad as her passing was, there was part of me that felt relieved and even glad.

Mom and I debated whether or not to make the 10 hour drive to Batesville, Mississippi for Aunt Dixie's funeral, but ultimately decided that we wanted to be there and as a bonus, we'd get to "celebrate" with Christmas with Nana by visiting her grave. I packed a little bite of Nana's fruitcake and one of the Christmas ornaments I'd made for my Nana-themed Christmas tree to leave at Nana's grave and off we went.

###

Mom was born in Oxford, Mississippi and lived in Batesville until she was 8. Nana, of course, was born and raised in Batesville, as was my grandfather Jesse, who died 10 years before I was born. Nana's sisters Johnnie and Dixie also lived most of their lives in Batesville and their children raised their kids either in Batesville or in a neighboring town. With the exception of my mom's brother Michael and his family, Dave and I were the only ones not raised at least part-time in Batesville.

Until Nana's funeral, it had been 15 years since either Mom or I had been to Batesville and we both knew this would probably be our last trip. For me, this trip was about saying goodbye to Nana in a way I hadn't had time or the emotional ability to do in July. For mom, this trip was about to be about her ability to reconcile her childhood with her present and future.

###

The day of Aunt Dixie's funeral, Mom and I were up and dressed early with about an hour and a half to spare before we were expected anywhere. Mom wanted to drive around and see some old "landmarks."

First, we drove to the house Nana was raised in. At least four generations of my family have lived in this house. From Big Mama (Nana's mom) to Nana and her sisters Johnnie, Dixie, and Mazie, to all four sisters and their families separately and together, to Johnnie's grandson Robert, many members of our family can count this house as "home" at one point or another. It was part of the family farm, which at some point after Aunt Johnnie's death was sold.

I remember sitting in Aunt Johnnie's kitchen when I was about 6 or 7 and feeling the house shake and hearing the dishes rattle. I turned to my mom and said, "they sure do have low flying airplanes around here," even though we were no where near an airport. As a kid growing up 15 minutes from O'Hare, it was simply the only thing I could imagine would make such a racket. Aunt Johnnie turned to me and in no uncertain terms informed me that it was a freight train and the railroad tracks were 100 yards outside her front door. She then asked my mom what kind of a child she was raising that didn't know the difference between an airplane and a freight train. The thing about Aunt Johnnie was that if you didn't know where you stood with her you were either deaf or you weren't listening.

The house that built Nana. They added on the bathroom located in the left of the picture behind the bush. Before that, they had an outhouse. The railroad tracks are 100 yards to the right of the house as you're looking at it.

Mom wanted me to see her elementary school, Batesville Elementary School, which had also been Nana's elementary school. It's been Batesville's elementary school since 1897 and occupies one entire city block.

Next, we drove by Aunt Dixie's house on Highway 6. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but on the inside, the rooms are elaborately decorated in the Federalist style, or as I affectionately refer to it, Early American Whorehouse. Honestly, I affectionately refer to it that way. In fact, there are some pieces of Nana's furniture that have been in Aunt Dixie's house for years that I'm hoping I can get because I love them. Aunt Dixie also has a huge basement that her late husband, Uncle Happy, built. We used to have the most fun family parties down there. In fact, it was in Aunt Dixie's basement, that Aunt Mazie flashed the entire family one Christmas. But I digress.

When Mom lived in Batesville, her house was located just left of Aunt Dixie's house. After Mom's family moved to Crystal Beach, Florida, they sold the house and it was moved to make way for a strip mall.

As I said, Mom's house was moved about a mile or so from its original location after it was sold. Over the year, Mom has mentioned many times that she has always wanted to go back into the house and see how it looks now. When they moved to Florida in 1956, it was a very sudden move and I don't even think Mom knew they were moving. I've always understood that they went for vacation to visit Mom's godmother and decided to stay. In fact, they left most of their furniture in Batesville because they believed they'd be back, but they never returned.

Because there were cars in the driveway, I pulled into the drive and told Mom to go knock on the door. I can't remember the last time I saw Mom move so fast as she did racing up to that door. A middle-aged woman answered and it only took a second for her to invite Mom inside, while I waited in the car. There was a part of me that wanted to see the house my grandfather built and see where my mom came from, but I knew this was really Mom's journey and worried a stranger wouldn't let two women she didn't know just roam around her house.

Mom returned about 20 minutes later with tales of how nice the woman was and how much of the house was still the same. The bookshelves my grandfather built in Mom's room were still there. The kitchen and the pantry were still the same. The owner, who it turned out was the daughter of the family that purchased the house from Nana and my grandfather, bragged to my mom about how well my grandfather built everything so only minimal work had had to be done over the years.

Getting back in the car, I could see a glow on Mom's face I hadn't seen for years. She was so happy to have been given this gift of visiting her childhood home and the only house she felt like they were a happy family in.


Having been at Mom's house in Batesville, I now have a better appreciation for the old 8mm family movies I found last summer and had converted into DVD. I can better picture these movies being filmed inside Mom's house in Batesville. This is the only video I have of my grandfather. (Get Little Merry Sunshine via email? Click here and go watch the video on Little Merry Sunshine.)

Jessica Gardner from Orange Guest on Vimeo.

Being back in Batesville was not easy. It was an emotional trip, but it was well worth the 20 hours we spent in the car. I don't know if we'll ever go back, so I'm a happy I gave Mom the time with her cousins and the opportunity to step back in time in her old home.

###

A few months later, I first heard the Miranda Lambert song, The House That Built Me, and it brought tears to my eyes as it took me back to that day in Batesville with Mom.

Happy 94th Birthday Nana!

Sunday would be Nana's 94th birthday.

If everything had gone as planned, I would be sitting in her pew at Crystal Beach Community Church feeling her presence next to me and remembering her reaching over to hold my hand as we sang hymns. Then I'd be enjoying lunch at Sam's Fresh Seafood with Mom. We'd end the day standing on the Crystal Beach Pier watching the sunset into the Gulf of Mexico.

Unfortunately, nothing went as planned this week and I'm in Arlington Heights.

So I'll be celebrating Nana's birthday by sitting in a pew in the church I grew up attending, the First Presbyterian Church of Arlington Heights. I don't know what else I'll do tomorrow, but I'm going to enjoy the dessert I remember Nana making more often than any other: Vanilla bean ice Cream and fresh peaches.

I remember cutting up peaches with her, scooping ice cream into the little Blue Willow china dessert bowls and sitting around the big dining room table while we all enjoyed the refreshing treat. After dinner, we'd wash and put away the dishes together and then walk down to the pier to watch the sunset.

Such a simple wonderful way to end the day. Just like Nana. Simple and wonderful.

In honor of Nana, here's her favorite hymn. We sang it at her Celebration of Life service on her birthday last year. It's hard to believe that a year ago I saw her for the last time. She looked so peaceful in her casket, although it was truly almost more than I could do to look at her. I just didn't want her to be gone. The truth is I still don't want her to be gone, but I'm doing better this year.

Nana Sent Me A Stargazer Lily*

Among the many beautiful plants in my garden, I have two Stargazer Lillies. I'm not really sure where they came from, although I seem to recall there were more in previous years. Now there's just two.

And I've been waiting patiently for them to bloom all summer. I had almost given up on them blooming at all. Until this morning. When I walked out this morning, I discovered one of the orchids in full bloom. I had no reason to believe this Stargazer Lily was going to bloom last night, but there it was this morning in all its glory.

I have to admit that my eyes welled up with just a few tears (which I didn't actually cry, I just became a little misty) and knew Nana had sent me this gorgeous gift of nature to keep me focused on all that I'm grateful for today rather than get stuck in thinking about how much I miss her.

Thank you Nana. Even now you put many smiles on my face.

*Thanks to my friend Christy for informing me that my beautiful flower isn't an orchid, but a Stargazer Lily. Even better.

UPDATED 7/16/2010: On Wednesday, I woke up to TWO beautiful Stargazer Lillies. I'm so in love with both of them and am convinced Nana sent them.

Nana Died Today - 1 Year Later

Today is the one year anniversary of Nana's death.

I'm honestly at a loss as to how to put into words just how much I still miss her. So often I want to pick up the phone and call her to tell her some funny story or just hear her voice and it's not until I get half done dialing her number that I remember I can't. I miss holding her small hands, hearing her call me her "dear Jessica" and reminding me that I'm her favorite granddaughter (I'm her only granddaughter, but that never mattered). I miss her southern drawl and the weekly letters that were often nothing more than newspaper clippings with Post-It Notes she thought I'd find interesting. And God knows I miss her fruitcake.

At some point in the last year, the daily tears stopped and my desire to get out of bed in the morning came back.

In the past year, I've found myself doing many things that remind me of her. For example, I wash dishes by hand far more than I used to. Nana never owned a dish washer and even when she'd come to visit, she would insist on hand washing the dishes rather than load the dishwasher. I have no idea what kind of dishwashing soap she used, but something about the lavender scented Palmolive makes it seem as though she's standing right next to me at the sink.

Yes, I miss her immensely, but she lived a great life and I'm grateful to have had my Nana for just a few days short of 93 years (well, I guess I only had her for just over 38 years, but you know what I'm saying). I'm not exactly sure how I'll honor her today, but rest assured, I'll find a few moments of silence to have a chat with her and let her know what I've been up to. And I'll probably shed a tear or two.

Eat At Sam's Fresh Seafood

I've known Sammy and Phyllis Hart, owners of Sam's Fresh Seafood in Dunedin, Florida, for about as long as I can remember. My mom grew up with them and they all attended Tarpon Springs High School together.

Sam and Phyllis opened Sam's Fresh Seafood about 30 years ago. Sam does most of the fishing and they serve what he catches, often that day or within 24 hours. I'm honestly not sure if there's fresher seafood available anywhere. They work in the restaurant together - Sam in the kitchen and Phyllis greeting guests, checking on tables and behind the cash register.

Whenever I'm in Crystal Beach the only restaurant I want to eat at is Sam's Fresh Seafood. Nana loved going there and it just feels like home. In fact, I can't recall the last time I was in Florida that I didn't eat at Sam's. I always have scallops and like every meal, they come with two sides and hush puppies. The fried okra is my other favorite. Actually, everything on the menu is amazing. Plus, for seafood, it's pretty budget friendly.

Sammy and Phyllis are also incredibly loyal. I've yet to meet a server who's been with them less than 6 or 8 years and who doesn't speak of them like they're family. Sammy and Phyllis hire good people, treat them right and they stick around.

Since the BP oil spill almost two months ago, Sammy and Phyllis have been on my mind a lot. I've wondered how they were doing and was relieved when I ate there on Mother's Day and business seemed good. But when I spoke to Mom today, she told me Sammy was on the local news last night discussing the steep decline in business. It's not that there's anything wrong with the seafood, but people are afraid.

I found the story and video below and my eyes welled up seeing Sammy choke up. I know it must have broken his heart to cut his staff's hours. Sammy and Phyllis are holding on, but paying a steep price to do so. Because I'm in Chicago, there's not much I can do, except say that I'll be eating at Sam's Fresh Seafood on when I'm in Crystal Beach on July 18th - Nana's birthday, write about them on Little Merry Sunshine, talk about them on Facebook, and encourage all my Florida friends to support Sam and Phyllis by eating at Sam's Fresh Seafood whenever they can. If you go, tell Phyllis that Jessica Gardner, Virginia Paulk's daughter sent you.



Sam's Seafood Restaurant Owner is Bracing Himself for an Uncertain Future as Oil Keeps Gushing
Sales Drop 40% Since Spill

July 11, 2010
by Rebecca Medina, ABC Action News

DUNEDIN, Fla. - Sam and Phyllis Hart, owners of Sam's Seafood Restaurant in Dunedin, said they're scared and facing an uncertain future because the oil spill in the Gulf will likely put them out of business.

"I don't know what I'll do next, I'm 63-years-old this is all I know how to do," said Sam as he sliced and diced his catch of the day.

Sam has been shucking oysters, marinating mussels and serving fresh seafood for more than 30 years. He said he and Phyllis have survived hurricanes, a red tide, sour stone crab seasons, but never oil creeping closer to Dunedin shores.

"My wife was arguing with a customer last night who was telling us the fish are glowing and it probably has all kinds of micro-organisms in it and this oil isn't even here yet."

But it might as well be covering the beaches, according to Phyllis who said, "We've seen a 40-percent drop in business since the spill. I've had to cut back employee's hours, and I have waitresses that've been with me for eight to nine years whose tips are down 30 percent."

To make matters worse Sam is now serving seafood that's imported instead of local, which is driving up his costs and drying out his bottom line.

Sam said, "I don't know how long we'll be able to hold on." When asked just how much he loves his business Sam turned away, put his head down and whimpered. "I love it."

Even Now Nana Continues to Surprise Me

I've never really been certain that Nana was proud of me, even though she always said she was. Growing up, all she wanted was for me to be a teacher. Although she'd been awarded a full college scholarship, Nana didn't go to college because she felt it was more important to go to work and help her family survive during the Depression. My mom's generation was the first in her family to go to college and all the women studied to become teachers, including my mom. Being was a teacher was the acceptable profession for a woman and most of my female cousins in my generation became teachers.

There's nothing wrong with being a teacher. In fact, I think it's one of the most noble and important professions in the world, but it wasn't what I wanted to do. My lifelong dream was to be a lawyer.

My dream of becoming a lawyer was the subject of many debates and tense conversations as I moved through high school and college. It intensified when I graduated without a job (it was 1993 and almost no one had a job upon graduation). Even after I was securely settled in Washington, DC and was studying for the LSAT, she would still encourage me to become a teacher.

Not only didn't I become a teacher, but I changed my mind and didn't become a lawyer either. Plus, she never saw me get married and give her great-grandchildren. I truly believed I'd failed in her eyes . . . until today.

As I was going through her things this afternoon, I came across two items that brought tears to my eyes. I found a clear plastic page protector filled with memorabilia - ticket stubs, Congressional passes, the playbill from "The Christmas Carol" at Ford's Theatre, brochures from Monticello, Mt. Vernon, and the White House, and the program from Christmas Eve services at the National Cathedral - from her visit to DC over Christmas 1995. That trip was one of my happiest memories of Nana. I had planned the whole trip to the minute and then had a wrench thrown in my plans when the Government shut down during a budet crisis, but we still had a great time, even without the highly anticipated trip to watch Congress in action. A few minutes later, I found an envelope from me with the Hogan & Hartson logo and address on it. Inside was a whole bunch of return address labels she'd cut off of letters I sent her from Hogan. My eyes welled up with tears and I was speechless.

It turns out I was wrong. Finding these items that aren't worth anything monetarily meant the world to me. I now know definitively that she was proud of me. Better late than never.

A Lifetime of Dreams

As I go through the process of cleaning out Nana's house, I look around at all the stuff that's accumulated during her almost 93 years and I think about the meaning of it all. On one level, it's all stuff. Some of it has some financial worth, but most of it can only be valued in sentiment. But on another level, all the stuff she's collected represents her lifetime of dreams. Dreams not only for herself, but also for her children and grandchildren.

I've looked through old photo albums and scrapbooks and seen her pride in my mom's and uncle's accomplishments. I've read through the letters she sent to Presidents Kennedy and Johnson after my grandfather died in 1961 attempting to get a mistake about my grandfather's VA benefits (and subsequent benefits for Nana) corrected. I've read letters she wrote to my mom and uncle later in life telling them of her unconditional love and letters she wrote to Dave and me telling us how proud she was of our accomplishments and her hopes for us. I've flipped through the well-worn pages of her Bible knowing that she turned to it nightly for comfort, inspiration, and life's answers. I've found boxes of my baby clothes (many of which she made)she carefully preserved in hopes my daughter would wear them someday. I found the blanket that kept me warm in my crib when I first came home from the hospital (and initially tossed it in the charity box, but then got sentimental and saved it). I've walked through her childhood in Mississippi with her sisters through pictures and diaries. The house itself is the culmination of a lifelong dream. She built it in 1969 from her life savings. The stories I've heard say she would come over after work once the frame was built and hang sheets where she wanted the internal walls to be located. There probably weren't too many other women who were designing and building their own homes. I've held the dress she wore to my parents' wedding in 1970 in awe of just how exquisite it was. She was so proud to walk her daughter down the aisle. I found a silk sari a friend had custom made for Nana in Fiji. Mom didn't even know of its existence. I also found half a dozen quilts Nana hand sewed and felt the care, hope and love she sewed into each stitch.

Sure, it's just stuff, but it all represents a life well lived. She may not have been rich in a financial sense, but she lived life on her terms with love and a never-ending faith in everyone and achieved most, if not all, of her dreams. That makes her wealthy in my book. I hope that when I pass away, whomever is charged with dividing up my personal belongings can say that about me.

I Think Nana Visited Me Last Night

As I type this, my fingers are trembling.

About 10:15 this morning, I opened my front door to check out the snow. Yes, snow. It was almost 70 the last few days and this morning it's snowing. And Mother Nature is messing with my head with a migraine today. Damn, her. But I digress.

Anyway, I opened my front door. The grass is covered with snow. The driveway and walkway to the front door are soaking wet. Snow is flying around. The tree branches are snow covered. I'd say it was pretty, but it's the first day of SPRING. Snow in the Spring is not pretty.

Sitting on the wet ground at my front door was a picture. A picture of Mom, Nana, and me. In fact, it was this picture:
One of my absolute favorite pictures of us. I love the smile on Nana's face. I love how genuinely happy she looks. I love how healthy she looks. She was in the hospital for knee replacement surgery and this must have been a few days after the surgery when she was finally feeling like herself again. Notice the lipstick she's wearing. It was her belief that no matter what else was going on in the world, as long as she was wearing lipstick, everything was okay. And people wonder where I get this belief from.

The picture sitting on the ground had been on my Christmas tree, as evidenced from the hole punched in the corner, but the ribbon was missing. Not torn out, just missing. My 2009 Christmas tree was a memorial to Nana and featured about 3 dozen pictures of Nana along with snowflakes she'd crocheted, but it was a fake tree, so I'm not sure how the picture ended up outside when I put the tree away. There were no water stains on the picture from months outside and the picture was completely dry, which was odd since it was laying on the very wet ground and it was snowing. Aside from a little dirt, the picture was in perfect condition.

I'm not sure where this picture came from, but I dreamt about Nana last night. Although I don't remember the details, I do remember she was visiting me here in my dream. And she was the way I remember her. Smiling. No gray hair (seriously, when she died at age 93, she had almost no gray hair and I hope that bodes well for me). Wearing lipstick.

When I woke this morning, I had a tough few moments deciding if my dream was real or a dream. I wanted it to be real because I miss her so much. I often think about if I just had 5 more minutes with Nana how I would spend it. I'd have so many questions I'd want answers to. So many things I would love to tell her.

Maybe my dream wasn't really a dream, but was reality. Maybe she actually visited me and left the picture, so I'd know it was real and not a dream. Maybe the reason I overslept and have a migraine was so I wouldn't rush out of the house through the garage early this morning and miss the gift she left me. Maybe.

Post-Script to "Life Panels" Special Comment

After taking a few days off because his father took a dramatic turn for the worse, Keith Olbermann was sort of back last night as he introduced his show and then gave a post-script Special Comment at the end following up on his "Life Panels" comment last week.

Some have criticized Keith as capitalizing and over-dramatizing his father's illness. That's simply not fair and unnecessary. Stories move people. We use them to teach lessons in all areas of life. Simply giving facts never sells a position like facts followed by examples (aka stories). I only wish we'd had such wonderful cooperation between doctors, nurses, and other caregivers when we were making decisions about Nana's end of life care. Unfortunately, all we had was our own gut and the her advance directives, which didn't cover everything.

Keith accurately reminds us that those "death panels" Sarah Palin and others love to frighten us with are really just meetings between patients (if they're able), their medical professionals and their families (or health care powers of attorney) to discuss options, make the most educated guesses, and develop a plan of action. Oh, and let the medical professionals bill insurance companies for those meetings. That's the key component: letting medical professionals bill insurance companies to help patients and their families make a plan to give the patient the best in restorative or palliative care. As it stands now, they can't get paid for that conversation.

Have I mentioned just how much I love Keith Olbermann?

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