The Importance of Answering the Question

Recently I went into Home Depot to pick up some deck paint.  As my 5 gallon container was being mixed, a lady and boy I assumed to be her son entered the area.  The boy was sitting in the child seat in the cart, although I judged him too old to be sitting in the cart, and wondered why he was there.  Did he have a tendency to wander off?  Was he a “problem child” of some sort?

The boy immediately noticed the paint being shaken.  “Look at that machine!  What is it doing?”

I expected the mother to give him a reasonable answer.  Instead she snapped at him, “Don’t pay any attention to that!” 

I was three or four steps away from the boy.  I caught his eye and smiled at him.  The mother was turned away looking at color samples.

My paint continued to shake, and I continued to be concerned about the mother’s response to her child.  Did he spend his entire day asking questions?  Was she sick of answering?

Eventually, I couldn’t help myself.  I took two steps closer to the boy, and said, “The machine is shaking up my paint in order to mix it.  If someone had to stir the color in by hand, they would be stirring all afternoon to get it mixed properly.  The machine can do it much more quickly.”

“Wow,” he said, “that machine is really interesting.”

“Yes, it is,” I replied.

The mother ignored me and the boy, for which I was grateful.  I had wondered, if she would be angry that I had spoken to her son.  I did make sure not to get too close and invade his personal space.

Why would a mother be unwilling to answer her kid’s questions….even if he asked thousands of them.  Isn’t that how kids learn?

About 40 years ago, a friend was visiting at our home.  We sat in the living room talking while my first daughter played on the floor.  At one point, my daughter pointed at something under my chair and asked what it was.  I more or less stood on my head to see what she was pointing at and answer her questions.  My friend said, “That is why your kids are so smart, you know….you take the time to answer their questions.”

It has never occurred to me NOT to answer my children’s questions!  It isn’t just a matter of satisfying their curiosity and “making them smart.”  It is a way of respecting their dignity as a person, and that is one of the most important things a parent can do.

Gravesite Thoughts

Usually we visit family graves around Memorial Day…or certainly by mid-June…and plant flowers around the tombstones.  It has been traditional, because it was Bill’s Dad’s habit, and as he aged and could not do this alone, we were drawn into it.  But this year…..I don’t know what happened, but it is mid-July and the task was not done until today, and not done to the extent of previous years.

Several generations of Bill’s Dad’s side of the family are buried in a cemetery in Antwerp, New York. Since no longer having his own greenhouses, Bill’s Dad would order geraniums from a local nursery.  We would load up the car with the flowers, fertilizer, mulch, tools, and bottles of water, since there is no water source in that cemetery.  Later, we would go to the cemetery on the north side of Watertown, where Bill’s Mom’s side of the family is buried, and finally to the cemetery on the south side where my parents are buried.

Last year, Bill’s Dad passed away.  This year we did not get to Antwerp at all.  No flowers were ordered ahead, and by now, everything was picked over and scraggly looking.  We were so late planting that we ended up running around to FIVE different stores before we found flowers that were acceptable to Bill for his parents’ gravesite, my parents’ gravesite, and that of a family friend whose grave we always take care of.

Being in our 70s ourselves, this is quite a bit of effort, and I did considerable thinking while turning over the soil and trying to remove the roots of last year’s plants.

*This is an awful lot of work to do for people who don’t even know we are doing it.  I sure am glad my shoulder fracture is well healed.

*I tried to decrease the work by suggesting to Bill that instead of continuing to plant a big circle around the main tombstone where his parents are buried, we could just plant a row on either side.  Nope.  It had to be done the way his Dad had done it.

*No one is doing this for my grandparents’ graves which are a 3 hour car ride away.  This seems especially a shame, because my mother’s father so faithfully cared for the graves of his deceased family members.  He also absolutely loved flowers.

*The odds aren’t good that anyone will do this for Bill and me.  Oldest daughter is in a wheelchair and although, she likes to garden, getting into the right position to do the work in a cemetery probably won’t be possible.  Daughter #2 says she is eventually moving to a commune, so she’s probably out.  Daughter #3 lives very far away.  Although she likes to garden, she is not into traditions like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, so what are the odds she would think about planting gravesites?  #1 Son has declared that he is as sentimental as a brick, and he also lives on the other side of the country, so I’m not expecting anything from him in this department.

*So what to do with our mortal remains????  If we are cremated, we still have to figure out what to do with the ashes.

Eventually, I got distracted from these thoughts leaving my questions unanswered.  After planting the flowers in front of my parents’ tombstone, I poured on a healthy supply of water and to my amazement, scores of ants came scurrying out of the ground and crawled all over the stone.  There must be a huge ant colony either under the headstone or under the area where the flowers are planted, and watering flooded their home.

I noticed a wheelbarrow of sand just behind my parents’ headstone and wondered who had left it there and why.  Just as we were finishing up, I realized that there must be a burial about to take place.  A cemetery worker arrived and spread out a piece of artificial grass a couple of rows away.  Two young men in military uniforms arrived and were standing around obviously waiting.  We left before a hearse and procession appeared.  I suppose the sand was there for fill in the newly dug grave.

So, I am home now and wondering…

Will anyone notice that the usual geraniums are missing from the family graves in Antwerp?

Would Bill’s Dad be upset at the pitiful scraggly geraniums we planted over his grave?

With apologies to Christian Rossetti, who is dead and doesn’t know anyway….

When I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no scraggly geranium,

Nor brown and wilted pansy:

The ants that crawl above me,

With your watering can don’t wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

The Last Breath

The last breath will come

And one of us will go on alone.

Synchrony gone.

Unity shattered.

For decades we have sung,

Harmonizing our voices,

Breathing in unison,

Avoiding discord.

Hundreds of times, skating

We have coordinated limbs,

Responding to subtle motions

Of the other.

Thousands of times

We have kissed, caressed,

Making our physical bodies,

Into one flesh.

Myriads of times,

We have blended our minds,

Our thoughts, our purpose,

Toward a mutual goal.

But one future day,

The movement will stop,

The very fabric of life,

Will be painfully torn.

And with that last breath,

A question will hang

Unanswered in the air.

How does one live alone?