Category: Memories of Mary

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Embrace Me

I shook someone’s hand today. I hugged a pastor yesterday. I embraced family on Christmas. Why should these things stand out? Why must they be remarked upon?

I wasn’t raised with a lot of physical affection. My dad was breaking a cycle of abuse and my mom came from a reserved Anglo family.

When I met my wife, we had the physical passion of new lovers, but she introduced me to a casual affection that stirred a longing in me. I remember the first hippy camping festival we attended together: her friends, total strangers to me, hugged me and said, “Welcome home.” It was not comfortable, I hadn’t experienced that kind of openness before. It took me years to open myself to friendly, physical gestures like that. It wasn’t until I held my first son that I began to understand how important physical connection is for me.

This year has been a cruel reminder of how much I crave physical, mental, and spiritual closeness with people.

I didn’t need a reminder. Widowhood has meant plenty of isolation.

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A Christmas Miracle

It was a bad day. My energy, temper, patience, compassion…none of it was what I needed to be today. I was a shell toddling around in places I was supposed to be, present in none of them.

Somehow I remember that the greatest victories come out of these dark places.

My father gave my son and I books by Carl Jung today. A four-hundred page paperback of tiny type for an eleven-year-old.

That’s why I remember Jung, “No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.” I cling to these words as the roots dig deeper. I cling to this as I chase, battle, and retreat from demons through my dreams, leaving me unrested each morning for days.

Two hours left in this awful day and I’m on the floor with unwrapped gifts, acting out a solo version of an old tradition. Mary and I would stay up wrapping gifts, leaving evidence of Santa’s visit, and preparing for Christmas morning. Santa has left the stage, but I still feel the pressure to make Christmas morning special.

This will be my third Christmas as a single father. With all my carrying on, I’ve managed to not have a girlfriend each year at this time. Maybe Mary still occupies too much of my heart in this season, there may not be room for anyone else quite yet.

I thought the miracle might come today. This month has been indefatigably difficult. I know something wonderful is near. It will be a surprise and I am eager for it to arrive. I suppose that is why I must wait a while longer.

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Revisiting a Tradition

Every December, Mary would spend a full day making cookies. She saved takeout containers througout the year and filled them with her goodies to share with friends, family, and neighbors.

I’ve never baked and I didn’t intend on picking up this tradition. My sons loved helping their mom, but I didn’t know where to begin (I was/am lead dishwasher).

When I tossed the idea out to friends that my sons enjoyed baking, but I was inept, there was no hesitation in someone suggesting a cookie baking party. It came together in five days with two of my late wife’s recipes on the menu.

The music was wild and the grownups kept things rolling as the kids rotated in and out, eating and helping in turns.

We’ve cultivated this new group of friends out of a primal drive for community. My boys have videogame, wrestling, and troublemaking partners and I have found a group of unschoolers who value the strength we find in each other.

It was a thrill to revisit Mary’s tradition in a totally new way. I know she’s smiling on us today.

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Process and Progress

I didn’t want a tree this year. Lots of reasons, but I’ve never owned this tradition. Raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, it never entered my sense of nostalgia.
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I mentioned opting out of a tree to my son, Isaac, and the disappointment on his face told me we needed a tree. Now I dreaded it as it felt out of my control.
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Then my friend Julianne’s daughter mentioned that she wanted to surprise her mom with a tree when she got back from a weekend away.
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Julianne is as hardworking as moms come. She’s a widow who has been a support and inspiration to me for almost two years. I never turn down an opportunity to help her out as she spends each and every day helping other people live their best lives.
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That same day I picked up the McElroy children to find our trees. I love love love these kids. They’re the McElzerbs when we’re all together. Our youngest boys were born just four  days apart.
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Julianne’s daughter, Kay, is all business and the trees were on top of my car in no time. She’s as independent as they come, but let me help get the tree inside and upright.
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By the time I got myself home, I didn’t have the energy to get our tree off the roof of the car. It was down early the next day, but stood outside for a week as I prepared a space for it inside. Repeatedly that week, I thought how absurd it was that I was bringing this tree inside to die.
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But, as I rearranged, cleaned, and generally improved our living space, I remembered how much my late wife enjoyed seasonal changes. Christmas  decorating was her favorite. Her sweet joy at all of it fueled me out of indifference. Isaac carries an inordinate amount of her DNA and spirit.
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Now here we are. More than week after purchase, a dozen bulbs replaced, and ready for ornaments.
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Certain things move more slowly as a single dad. It’s hard for me to accept that and forgive myself for being worn out before a job is done. The funny part is that sometimes Mary and I would get this done a few days before Christmas. In my self criticism I almost forgot that I’m doing a fine job. I almost ignored the progress we’ve made. This is my process.
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Respect yourself. Respect your process. Merry Christmas.

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Thankful for Music

I could write 30 days of posts about how important music is in my life, but the Lockdown has drastically changed the way I listen to it.

Live music has been virtually nonexistent and there have been no big shows or festivals. In an effort to fill in the enormous void of cultural events and resources that make up our learning lifestyle, we have listened to many more audiobooks and podcasts. Akira the Don’s meaningwave has been there for when my boys are a little tired of speeches and stories, but that’s not like my old, playlist-obsessed ways.

I’ve also had technical problems with my music collection. Some of which I started to iron out today. I went first to the staples that have connected my sons to their late mother. David Bowie, Michael Franti, Parliament Funkadelic, and Iggy Pop carry strong memories of my married life. They are guaranteed triggers for my grief. The wave of joy and sadness that I cherish. Sadness for the loss and joy that, for all my growth and self-discovery, Mary still holds a special place in my heart. Somehow, she shares in my joy at hearing those songs and telling those stories. It’s not only a connection to our sons, but to all in my life who love and share music with.

I thought music meant the world to me before I was widowed. I thought I lived life to its fullest. In these nearly three years, I have learned that there is no limit to the joys that can be reached in this life.

Every day I am ready for new and amazing experiences, even if they are as simple as rediscovering forgotten B-sides.

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Grateful Tears

“I haven’t cried in a while,” feels like a weird thing to say.

At a certain point you learn to feel the swelling wave of grief as it approaches. You don’t paddle away or try to hide under the surface. “Time to ride,” you might say to yourself. You’re probably out there without a board, but this wave is inevitable, so you throw your body on top of it. It might speed you to shore, or it might carrying you away into bawling reminiscing.

This morning, the wave came in the form of a video of a flash mob performing Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven.”

Mary had a brother-in-law, Rich, who loved Zeppelin. He also died too young and I think of them in Heaven together, laughing and having a grand time at our expense. Rich was the funniest one in the family. He was brutal and loving and could give no shits about convention. He was a mountian man who could fit in at a hipster wedding, Eagles game (as a Raider’s fan), fancy party, or anywhere you please. He was a hunter and master mason who would keep you up all night drinking and laughing.

In a family with a lot of in-laws, Mary and Rich were each other’s favorites. He was my favorite too. I often imagine them watching my crazy life. I’m sure Rich has plenty to say about me dating, “You gonna let your husband do that? You should haunt those fuckers.”

“He’s not my husband anymore, Rich. Remember we’re dead?”

“Damn, why are you always bringing that up?”

“Anyway, she seems like a nice girl and I trust him.”

I’m sure Rich responds with something too crude to write here.

Music isn’t a minefield of emotion for me, it’s more like watching witches throw ingredients into a cauldron. Sometimes you’re ready for the splash and burst of purple (favored color of Rich and Mary) fire and sometimes the dragon’s tear or frog’s tongue suprises you with an eye-stinging smoke.

I’m grateful for the concoction and the tears it inevitably produces. It grounds, cleanses, and heals.

Rest in Fun, Rich Williams and Mary Zerbey. I may not want you to see all that goes on in my life, but I hope this video reaches to Heaven.

https://youtu.be/iXEsCEOh2yc

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Grateful for These Strange Creatures

Of course I love my boys and think they are, objectively, the best humans. That should be a given with 9- and 11-year-olds who have had half decent parentage.

But these boys are special. They lost their mother almost three years ago and bring her spirit alive every day. Isaac, the younger, struggles with fading memories of Mary, but he has no idea how much he embodies her compassion and warmth. He’s a half-grump and slow to wake up, just like mama. He’s always thinking of little things to do for people. He gets overwhelmed by the nuclear energy that emits from his dad and older brother. He loves music and art and when he’s in the present, no one else is more present.

Mary and Isaac would have been best friends. They would have built fires and cuddled in front of them. They would have cooked and baked together. They would have slept in on Saturdays while Westen and I went on a morning adventure.

There’s sadness in those “would haves,” but I am grateful for the connection his existence creates with his mother.

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The Usefulness of Triggers

Widowhood won’t leave you alone for long. It creeps up in the weirdest ways.

My boys and I say down this week to watch the Tron movies. I thought I had seen the sequel, but as the opening scenes began, I realized that it was an unfinished plan I shared with Mary.

We had watched the original film together in 2017. Were going to watch the new one. We didn’t get that chance.

It didn’t hurt. I didn’t see any great opportunity for healing or a need to share this rather small observation with my sons.

But I see this as a place to share those little things. One day my sons may need this story. Maybe they’ll need to know how much of their mother’s legacy they are a seamless part of. They complete, and at once continue, the life that seems to have been cut short.

God bless, thank you, I appreciate you,

Jason

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Digging for Courage: Dirt Therapy

The garden was Mary’s domain. I’ve been intimidated to enter it. I’ve been put on notice about treating *her* plants improperly. I let go of some of that today. It’s not easy to take ownership and risk losing blooms that remind us of her. But like everything else, life is for the living. And I know Mary would want nothing more than a vegetable garden tended to by her sons.

We have the opportunity to do so through Winterthur’s Kids Grow program. The boys are veterans of the program, but I’m new to the hard parts. In the past I’ve mostly harvested and eaten their delicious produce.

Due to governmental restrictions, the program must be done from home. This program gets children out into the sun, with their hands in the dirt, strengthening their immune systems. The irrationality of limiting activities like this and all the wonderful summer camps makes me very sad.

But nothing can stop me from doing what is right for myself and my sons. We spent much of the day tackling a half-tended-to flower bed, preparing it for our new vegetable seeds.

The last picture is of sunflowers that are coming up from seeds that were dropped two years ago. Along with some hostas and purple bean plants, they are the only green to survive the prep.

Sunflowers were a favorite of Mary’s, as were the purple bean plants and hostas.

We planted the tomato plants that Winterthur provided and look forward to learning about the wealth of seeds that were sent home with us.

God bless and thank you for reading,

Jason