This post is not about my mother, but rather my mother-in-law whom I called "Mom" when I was living in Ohio with her son.I'm not sure I even have the words to describe her, though some that come to mind are: loving, warm, kind, upstanding, truthful, righteous (but not self-righteous), good . . . truly good. There haven't been many people in my life that could be described with two of those words, much less all of them. And I know I'm leaving out a lot of them, just from lack of vocabulary. She prayed daily and often and had the strongest faith I had ever encountered. I'm still not sure how she could have produced The Man to whom I am still regretfully married, in spite of having been separated for nearly four years. (That's my project for August of this year, at which time I will have--hopefully--settled in from moving yet again!)Mom died in January of this year from what I believe was a brain aneurysm. At that time I could not afford the price of the gasoline to get me to Ohio for her funeral. Just as well, I suppose, since the self-righteous hypocrite who is her son and my legal husband "ordered" me not to come. He did it out of spite because I had finally convinced him I was NEVER coming back to him, no matter what he did, and he might as well stop asking. Mom would not have been very proud of him for that.My last conversation with this wonderful woman was concerning The Man, her first-born child, who never showed her one ounce of love or respect that I could see. This conversation took place after the death of his son in November of 2007, a time when I WAS able to afford to drive to Ohio for the funeral. Mom gave a beautiful eulogy for her grandson who had died in a motorcycle accident. I still don't know how she stood in front of all those people and read the most heartfelt and sincere account of her "Brian's Song." She was so composed, so loving and sincere. As she finished, I whispered to The Man to go help his mother off the platform where she had been standing. (Not only could he not think of it himself, being the selfish pig he is, but I actually had to repeat it.) He did help her down and even gave her a hug in front of everyone. And this simple gesture is what our last conversation was about. This small act had given her so much pleasure that it was really sad. She asked me if I knew what she could possibly have done to make The Man dislike her, and I told her truthfully that I did not know. He had indicated to me at some point in the last 15 years that there WAS something, but he never told me what it was.Mom would have celebrated her 80th birthday today. I have been thinking of her since I woke up.
As previously stated, I catch up on all my Internet stuff at work whenever time permits. Time permits tonight because I just don't feel like working, so my two co-workers are taking up the slack for me. We do that for each other, and fortunately we don't all usually have a case of the I-don't-give-a-craps at the same time. So tonight it's my turn.While reading Lil Sis' blog about OCD tonight I was reminded of the dishes I have which are exactly like her square ones. I don't recall whether it was an accident that we purchased the exact same pattern of dishes or if one of us copied the other. No matter. They are beautiful dishes, and I am hoping one day to actually use mine. Either that or I will leave them to Lil Sis so she will have LOTS of them. That's if I ever get back to Ohio to rescue them along with all the other "stuff" I left there.I loved Ohio . . . really. I loved everything about it--even the snow--everything except (in the end) The Man who took me there. Actually it was my idea to move there. We had just endured a terrible ordeal in Georgia and needed a change of scenery, and besides The Man had grown up there and his family were all there. I loved it immediately and desperately wanted to stay, but when the time came I knew I needed to be with my family again. I had been estranged from them for three years, only seeing Lil Sis a time or two and my son and his family every chance I got. I did not see or speak to Lil Bro or Mom for the whole time I was in Ohio. When I came home my family all called me one by one, and they all cried--even Lil Bro.The area in Ohio where we lived was farm land and not much else, yet I was never more than 10 miles from whatever I needed--three miles if I didn't mind paying a little more. The terrain was flat, and how I loved that for bicycle riding! There was an old railroad bed which had been transformed into a biking/hiking path, and I never lived more than 5 miles from an entrance to it. The trail was well used by bikers and walkers, old folks, children and dogs. Never did I feel threatened or in danger riding on this path which was 11.5 miles long. There was only one time when I rode the entire trail from end to end and back. And I never rode the trail that I did not wish Lil Sis could be there to ride with me. I worked a seasonal job in a hardware store which was part of a grain elevator where the farmers took their wheat, corn and beans. For most of the time I lived there I was close enough to ride my bicycle to work, and I thought that was heaven. The locals thought I was insane. I guess new folks didn't move into town very often because I was certainly the talk of the town. Of course there was my Southern accent which stuck out like a sore thumb. I also "worked" in my sister-in-law's greenhouse which she opened shortly after we got there. I say "worked" because it was more fun than work. I guess I miss her and the greenhouse most of all. She became my best friend and confidante. Since I left she and her husband have bought a larger greenhouse, and I have wished many times I could be there to help.Here is a story that underscored for me how small the town was. A man called the hardware store one day to ask if we had peepholes for doors. I checked for him and told him that indeed we had one. (One only.) He asked me to hold it for him, and then as an afterthought he asked if I would charge it to his account and bring it out to the car for him. He said, "I don't feel like putting my leg on."There seemed to be an inordinate number of people in that area with missing arms, legs, fingers, maybe toes. It took me quite some time to figure out that most of it was probably due to farming and getting things caught in machinery. There were also factories in the area--small though it was--and I had heard one especially gruesome story about how a very nice man named Bob had lost his arm. He mostly used a mechanical arm but sometimes came in without it attached. It took some time to get used to it.I was amazed at how young the old farmers looked. One of the told me he was 73 years old, and I just refused to believe it. I wanted to stay there until I looked younger, too!In this small town there was a very busy railroad. On my way to the hardware store one morning--on my bicycle--I noticed a plaque in the ground near the railroad crossing. This was something I might never have seen in my car. The train happened to be on the tracks this particular morning as I approached, and I stopped beside this plaque. It has the name of a night policeman who was killed there in June of 1896. While I lived there I asked every person I could think of who might know how he was killed. I even asked the computer guy at the library and he didn't know. Several people told me it was a bank or train robbery, and one even told me he was shot by the John Dillinger gang. I've done my research, and Dillinger wasn't born then. I have tried every way I know (and have had time for) to find out how this policeman died. Even on the website for the Ohio Fallen Officers, it lists his cause of death as "unidentified." They thought enough of him to put a plaque (marker, monument) in the ground, so I'm thinking he didn't just die of natural causes on that spot near the railroad. I never got around to taking a picture of the marker.When I have the time (and the money?) I will go back there to collect my things. Maybe I will remember to take some pictures. I really miss that little old town.
