Even when I’m surrounded by rain, Spring-like weather and new growth that is common for Winter in my part of Northern California, I’m reminded of the Christmases of my youth.
For whatever reason, memories of helping my brother and father deliver newspapers on Christmas morning, probably 1970, are lingering around the back of my brain.
While we may have fought like cats and dogs upon occasion, most of my memories of my Big Brother are beautiful snippets of caring. His smile, when I met him on the street (after he moved out of our Mom’s house), and he offered me a ride. Big Bro didn’t have to stop, but the fact that he made the effort at only 16 has always struck a cord with me.
While we would only nod at each other at high school (I was a freshman and he was a senior, living in separate houses and towns), Big Bro would never deny the relationship and always tried to make me feel welcome and a part of his life.
So it’s strange to be sitting here remembering the end of our parent’s marriage about 1971, and our last happy Christmas together hustling to deliver the Christmas newspapers so that we could all go home to a warm and filling Christmas dinner.
Big Bro could certainly charm the birds from the trees (literally, too!) if he chose to do so, and I often wonder why he had to leave all who loved him when he was still so very young. 52 is way too young, and yet he had a lifetime of adventures in those years.
A lovely and accomplished wife. Two fine young men as sons. While we would always want him to stay forever, because he truly was the life of the party, its hard to believe that he’s been gone 7 years, and Mom has been gone 13 at this point.
I’m not particularly melancholy today. I’ve been spending time cooking up a storm last night to keep the house warm and fill my freezer with easy to reheat food (with more hamburgers and meat loaf being made later today). I’ve made more bracelets in gold plated brass (once @Suzz got me motivated to her color scheme of Olive, Amethyst and Orange, I’ve been very inspired). And, I’m even in the process of washing the laundry room floor from the overflow 2 weeks ago.
(It may have taken me forever to handle the washing machine repair and clean up the mess, but I’m finally ready to trust that it’s repaired reliably and willing to put the front panel back where it belongs).
After a night spent pouring rain, and being creeped out by the bushes on the side of the house scraping the siding and sounding like lost children (yes, freaky in the middle of the night, even when one knows what is causing the sound), I’m doing what I can to both stay busy as well as rest (hence, this post) so that I can stay healthy while also trying to be active.
So, Netflix is on with a Barbara Streisand musical playing loudly, Herself is pacing from room to room wondering why I’m not napping on the couch and cuddling, and all is good with the world as I go over snippets of this and that in the back of my brain.
Misty water-colored memories of the way we were
Smiles we gave to one another for the way we were
Or has time rewritten every line
Tell me, would we?
What’s too painful to remember
We simply choose to forget
Whenever we remember
The way we were
The way we were