Grief Therapy

It is said that grief therapy comes in many forms. I personally found this out during the past year, upon the death of my dear, much loved mother. Mom had lived a good, long life and passed away fairly quickly- although unexpectedly - at the age of 90 - 2 months shy of her 91st birthday. She was a bright, independent woman who had lived on her own as a widow for 13 years. She had numerous friends and activities in which she was involved. Mom was the proverbial rolling stone which gathered no moss, so I thought nothing of inviting her to come stay with our family over the Thanksgiving/Christmas holidays. To our great delight, she took me up on the offer! Not wanting to deal with the rigamaroles of flying again (they practically gave her a complete physical the last she time tried to get through airport security in a wheelchair, which I had insisted upon her being in for the sake of convenience and timeliness). So I flew there, rented a car, and drove with her here. As we were pulling out of her driveway, little did either of us know that would be the last time she would ever see her own house again...

The evening of December 7th, Mom became ill. So ill that she insisted I call an ambulance and take her to the hospital. Upon arrival, we found she needed emergency surgery for a supposed hole in her stomach. It was scary, but she put on a brave face - and several hours later emerged doing better than expected, considering her age and the huge gash they had to cut into her belly.  Everyone was happy she seemed to be pulling thru so well - then we got the news. The "hole" in her stomach was not caused by an ulcer of some sort. It was from "lymphoma" cancer! We'd had NO idea she had this - nor had she, I think. Regardless - suffice it to say that the rest of December was a complete blur - 24/7 one of us sat at the bedside with her at the hospital. She would improve, then a side effect of something would knock her down again. Finally, On January 6th - Epiphany - Mom's old body finally had enough and she went home to be with her savior.

I went home in a fog.  Actually, all of us did. We made the necessary burial arrangements, etc. but none of it felt real. I'd had this woman in my life for almost 51 years. Hers was the first voice I ever heard, the first touch I ever felt, the first love I ever knew. Adjusting to not having her around to visit, reminisce with or telephone when something was on t.v. I knew she would enjoy watching, was not easy. Oh - I know I am not the only person to ever have gone through this. Death touches us all. It had touched me when my father died, 13 years earlier. But this was different. I was the only daughter. I was the one who knew mom better than anyone else. I was so close to her. We never had the standard mother/daughter relationship with all of the arguing and competition. Mom and I always got along great.. And who wouldn't ?! With her cheerful, optimistic personality, that woman could've gotten along with Satan, himself!

So anyway... I missed her. Our birthdays rolled around - first hers, then mine a week later, with no cheery "happy birthday" singing phone calls. I missed her even more. Easter came and went without the standard Easter cards from her I'd come to take for granted. I missed her.

 In the midst of all of this, I found that my frugal, simple living, thrift store shopping mother had managed to amass a little nest egg that was to be divided between my two brothers and myself. I debated upon what to do with my "windfall". 100k - a lot of money - but not enough to go completely crazy.  The thought of putting it in the bank and making next to nothing in interest on it, went  completely against my grain. My mom had inherited most of this money from a trust her father had set up - a man who perfectly exemplified the quintessential "rags to riches" story. He was an independent guy who had made it on his own - with no help from others. A man  who believed in hard work and standing on his own two feet. A man who who had grown up so poor - the oldest of 12 children with a father who was an alcoholic - that his family lived in a tiny 2 room shack next to the railroad tracks. A man who only had a 4th grade education. A man whose class picture, taken at the turn of the century in Ohio, shows a group of smiling, happy kids warmly decked out in hats and coats - while he knelt there next to them staring seriously into the camera, wearing just a white shirt and pants - and no shoes. In winter. In Ohio.

Grandpa F.

Whatever I did with the money, I wanted to - and needed to - honor all of grandpa's hard work and the sacrifices he'd made in order to be able to leave this money for our family. I also wanted to honor my mother's frugality and fortitude in making a loving home for our family on my father's very modest income.  A woman less dedicated may well  have spent more extravagantly, knowing that she would someday inherit money from her father. Such was not the case with mom, however. She shopped at discount stores. Dressed us kids in hand-me-downs and patched clothing when necessary, and was not wasteful. She re-used plastic containers, served leftovers and "recycled" writing paper, etc. Despite her thriftiness, she made sure she still tithed 10% to her church - saying that to "cheat God" was really only cheating herself...

SO... back to the point of this blog. I had a small inheritance coming from my mother's estate and I didn't want to spend it stupidly. After much thought and consideration, I finally determined that the best way to respect the gift I was given by my mother and grandfather was to buy a house. Something that would increase in value. Something tangible that I could look at and remember all of the sacrifices that went into giving me this opportunity. We decided to use the money as a down payment on a small home built in 1960 (coincidentally, the same year the home where I was born was built) - located in a great resale neighborhood. We ended up following the age-old real estate advice of buying the "cheapest house in the nicest neighborhood" we could afford.

It's not a fancy house. It's small - 3 bdr., 2ba. 1700sq. ft. . It's old.  It has a red brick exterior and hardwood floors.  It's got a boring, all-one living room/dining room layout. It has a small family room with a low, sloping ceiling, made from a converted porch. AND it has most of the original features that gave it it's charm. A built in blonde brick planter by the entryway door. A built in kitchen hutch. A pink tiled bathroom. AND a blue tiled bathroom! Instead of wanting to tear those down and "modernize" the house, those features are actually what drew me to it.

My own little piece of history. A refuge where I can escape some of the insanity of the world today - at least for a bit. Built during a time when life was good and there was still so much hope for the future. When hard work was not demeaned. When morals and Christian values were not sneered  upon. Space exploration was opening up. Viet Nam had not yet started. Divorce was not prevalent. Dual working families were unusual and not the norm, so most of the moms in the neighborhood were around to supervise their - and their neighbor's - children.  Hippies, drug cultures, free-love with gratuitous sex and the downward spiral of society were still several years away. In 1960, people were looking toward the future with hope and upbeat expectations. It was still an "innocent" time. A great time to have lived - and a great time to build a home!