The Sound and Smell of Starbucks

23 Mar

gift cardMarch 23, 2013 started with the sound of Sondra’s footsteps clacking across the upstairs bamboo floor.  Though she is just five feet tall, she moves through life as a force to contend with from early morning until midnight.  Seven days a week, the rhythm of her footsteps wakes me up and echoes to my soul that there are things to do and a life to be lived.

The rat-a-tat-tat of her gait also signals that she is moving toward the coffee machine to push the start button on our morning elixir.

Sweet Jesus…I can smell it now!

I knew today was rolling when the coffee was brewing.  Within minutes a smile came over my face as I pressed my favorite mug in to release ten full ounces of heaven.  There is just nothing quite like the sound of liquid adrenaline rushing into your cup.  And what compares to the smell of fresh brewed coffee?  As I filled the cup with Starbucks Medium House Blend, my mental list of activities began to form.

Transfer Starbucks birthday gift cards to one card and buy two pounds of coffee in order to earn two $5.00 additional Starbucks gift cards…Offer expires March 24…

Immediately following the caffeine jump-start, I hopped onto the internet highway and zoomed to Starbucks.com to register my cards.

It’s convenient that I live with two seasoned addicts.  My extensive coffee training from my former part-time job at Sur La Table has certainly paid off.  From burr grinding the beans to loading the water and filter system, I am now the official caffeine Sommelier in this household.  I’m also in charge of carefully monitoring the half and half inventory, ensuring that the half-gallon container never dips below the pint level.  That’s a lot of pressure in Nebraska, especially since I have to carefully calculate, “What if there is a snow storm and the four-wheel drive vehicle can’t make an emergency run to the grocery store?”  And God forbid that we would run out of Starbucks Medium House Blend beans and be forced to drink Folgers.  That would be Armageddon.

What is with my new addiction?  Before arrival at the Gerber household, I had divorced myself from coffee and diet soda.  It was an amicable split, prompted by a certain health consciousness that avoids artificial sweeteners;  I also maintained the notion that caffeine contributed to my sleeplessness.  It was puzzling to think why I had been lured back to the dark side of roasted beans.

Today as I sorted through the minutia of my mind (that’s what writer’s do), it dawned on me that I had unconsciously associated coffee with many of my worst memories surrounding cancer care.  In retrospect, I was personally escorted by a big styrofoam cup of Joe to way to many five a.m. hospital rounds.  The beverage become an ulcer in a cup, not a life experience at a trendy location with smart people and their laptops.  Coffee was a necessary commodity to keep my eyes peeled open.  What was I thinking in those night hours when I poured a tank full of leftover sludge?  I can still see my pitiful self swishing those grinds in the bottom of a burnt pot, hoping they would mix into something more appealing.

I maintained my coffee moratorium those first days in my new apartment.  But then as the smell wafted down the stairs along with the echo of laughter at their kitchen table I was lured up into the temptation.  The Starbucks experience also overflows to the Saturday trips to Target, with a quick hello to the favorite Barista and Sondra’s Venti-Triple Shot-Three Pump-Vanilla Latte-Extra Hot Starbucks tagging along as we cruise up and down the aisles.

March 23 marked five years (half a decade) since my girl died.  My life is just so very different than I imagined.  The book “Transcending Loss” writes

…once you accept that you are forever changed and that life is forever different, you have to ask, “What are you going to do about that fact?”

My answer?  Make mine a Venti Carmel Macchiato.

Key Notes:

  • The reality is that Starbucks is just serving me coffee.  Sondra & Company are serving friendship and relationship.
  • Memories can shift.  I no longer smell coffee and think, “Count me out.”  Instead the aroma makes me think, “Don’t leave me out.”curly earrings.jpg

On A Lighter Note:

  • Think Starbucks is too expensive?  We are home brewers.  The average 1 lb. bag yields 30-40 cups of coffee.  With my $5.00 gift card today on a 1 lb. bag, cost per bag is $7.00.  On the low end, $7.00 divided by 30 is .233333 cents per cup.  A soda at your average fast food restaurant is $1.25.
  • When your whole bean bag of Starbucks coffee is empty, you can return it to Starbucks for one free coffee.
  • Still thinking Sondra spends too much on coffee?  My friend has taken used gift cards and recycled them into a product line called “Swipes.”  Their popularity at www.bluepom.com more than pays for a cup of Joe.

Giftcard Dress

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The Business of Bathrooms

23 Feb

Barbie BirthdayI’m just not a big fan of public restrooms. Roadside gas station latrines are at the top of my *eew* list.  I still don’t understand the ceremony of going t0 a surly cashier to ask permission for an obscenely giant-sized key that unlocks the outside door-around-the-corner.  Why d0 they lock up a room where the toilets are never flushed and surfaces never mopped?  And who knows what goulash things transpire beneath a bed of haphazardly strewn toilet paper?  Every time I see the Mobil Oil Gas Station winged red horse, Pegasus, I gag a little.

I do come by my germa-phobe mindset honestly.  During my preschool years, Mom would preface my journey into a public restroom by briefing me on unknown filth. Upon arrival, she would take me into a stall with clear instructions on how to put toilet paper over each side of the seat if pull-out paper toilet covers were not available.  The fear of God Almighty loomed as to my fate should the T.P. fall into the stool and my skin make contact with the shiny porcelain.  As Mom helped me shut and lock the monster-size swinging door, she would tell me to resist the temptation to poke my head under the stall to meet my neighbors.  Left alone to my own devices, I’d lower my head just enough to check out the shoes on either side of me.  With great care, I’d pull my prissy dress and ruffled slip away from waters’ edge, as I attempted to perfectly lower my bum down on the precariously protected surface.  That’s a lot of pressure when your five, especially if you have to stand on tip-toe just to get up on the throne.  Public peeing was a pain in the watuski.

After our extreme toilet paper routine, hand-washing was a given.  I soaped up because mom said so.  When I became a mom, it was a natural for me to encourage Megan and Ryan to scrub-a-dub-dub.

By the time my daughter entered second grade hand hygiene was taught in public schools, and Megan’s delightful teacher encouraged students to sing the Happy Birthday song as they washed away.  While this concept is endorsed by the U.S. government website, I had never heard of the ritual; but Megan jumped on that band wagon, and hummed the Happy song into her adult life.

Hand-washing became all out war when Megan began chemotherapy.  As white blood counts hovered just above zero, clean living was part of the healthcare protocol that helped ensure my girl would see another day…another birthday. Think I’m exaggerating that detail?

Imagine a woman who is just getting over the stomach flu.  E-coli and other bacteria lives in the gut, and when doing her ‘business’ it is expelled from her bowels.  If she wipes and fails to wash her hands, she puts herself in harm’s way to ingest it again.  But never mind her personal choice.  And never mind that you saw her $900 Christian Louboutin heels when you peeked under the stall….When she flits by the faucets, her hands carry disease and everything she touches puts the next woman in that territory at risk for the same infection.

If you are in chemotherapy, among the elderly, or have a compromised immune system, the flu can take your life.  Mayo Clinic website clearly states:

A low white blood cell count (leukopenia) leaves your body more open to infection.  And if an infection does develop, your body may be unable to fight it off.

Wednesday, February 27th is my birthday.  Rest assured, I’ll be washing my hands to help ensure another year.  And should I need to use a public restroom at the mall, I’ll sing a few choruses of Happy Birthday for my girl, and for ever woman, young and old, that follows behind me.

Sweet Jesus…I’ll be 56.

Valerie Bosselman

Right-Wing Handwashing Advocate

Key Notes:
  • As a mom, and a caregiver, I’ve cleaned up my share of bodily fluids.  Given the choice, I prefer a private restroom to public facilities.
  • It’s not ‘mind your own business’ when you are doing your business.  Your decisions behind the locked door and at the faucet affect everyone around you.
  • The number one way to prevent disease and infection is to wash your hands.  It’s not a shot.  It’s not an antibiotic.  It’s not a vitamin.  It’s not chemotherapy.  It’s the simple truth that hand washing with soap prevents a host of diseases.
  • Dr. Caitlin Foxley wraps it up in a few words.  ”Wash wash wash!  But…. Don’t use antibacterial soap because that breeds antibiotic resistance. Just use soap.  Not washing your hands, especially after using the restroom, leads to the spread of disease.  It can spread nasty things like Hepatitis A and Norwalk virus.”
  • Tired of Happy Birthday To You?  Yankee Doodle Dandy is a suitable replacement.  The goal is for 20 full seconds of soapy friction.

On a Lighter Note:

  • I’m pictured above wringing (not washing) my hands at age 2.  If we’re really honest, a head erupting from a perfectly normal cake is a bit disturbing.
  • When traveling, I always default to McDonalds for their consistently clean bathrooms across the country.
  • To some of my friends SOAP is a four letter word.  Because of my handwashing tirade, they now either:
    • 1.  Wash their hands.
    • 2.  Pretend to wash their hands, in fear of someone like me confronting them.
  • My dear Aunt Mags, who worked in Infection Control at Wilford Hall US Air Force Medical Center (1992-1996) and Coordinated study of community prevalence of VRE (Vancomycin Resistant Enterococcus) for the Dept. of Infectious Diseases at Air Force VA and University of Texas Health Science Center, does stop women who do not wash their hands in public restrooms.  As she is washing her hands she will say,  ”Hold the door open please!  I just washed my hands and you did not.  It’s your decision not to wash, but its my decision to not want to touch the door after you.“
  • I asked Dr. Foxley if she uses toilet paper seat covers?  Her candid response was “Depends on how skanky the restroom is.

On a Final Note:

Where was this modern invention when I was five?

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Happy 32nd Birthday, Megan Bosselman

24 Jan

meganMy Dear Megan,

I know.  You told me so.  Though eternity separates us, I can hear you say it from across the cosmos.

Mom, you can not wear high-rise underwear with The Gap Curvy low-rise jeans.

It’s taken me more than half a decade to heed that advice.  God (and you) only know how many times my aqua panties have stuck out with my little muffin top in my size 14 jeans.  I used to hate it when even in the worst of health you found the tenacity of spirit to reach down the back of my jeans and pull my underwear into one big wedgie.  That was just plain wrong.

So, in loving memory of you, this birthday week I took the big plunge and bought my first pair of low-rise underwear.  Well, not my first pair;  I owned some lavender bikinis when I was sixteen and weighed a buck twenty-five.

You left me with so many shopping challenges.  Why is it that whenever I’m waiting in line to buy intimate apparel, and there are five or six female check-out associates at T.J. Maxx, that I am advanced forward to the one and only male clerk?  And it’s never just some old guy;  it’s always the twenty-something year old handsome boy with the million dollar smile and tiny smirk that chimes, “Will this be all for you, ma’am?”

Sweet Jesus…”Ma’am” always means “You’re my mamma’s age.”

Anyway, take your momma’s granny panties off your eternal check list of things for me to do.  For your birthday, I want to weigh in with the big news that after a lifelong struggle with weight, I’m down 35 pounds.  Thank you, dear Megan, for vision that believed that I would one day lay aside the overwhelming weight of grief and that I would sow and reap a healthy life without you.

I know you privately told all your friends and family that you were worried about me living without you.  Surely it’s not a coincidence that I reside in a home with a nationally certified body pump instructor.  Thank you that you believed that my o’ so tired body would find a way, and you left me little P.S. I Love You notes in the language you know best…clothes.

You gave me that eBay buy of the century;  a Neiman Marcus silk brocade coat, Jackie O style. You bought it for me with just about your last dollar.  When the exquisite size 10 coat arrived in 2007, I was not quite sure what imaginary mom was going to wear it.  I guess the woman you imagined me to be.  On this day, your 32nd birthday, I’m swaggin’ it.  And that quilted black leather Chanel-like jacket….thank you for knowing that your mom was more than a caregiver. Forty-four months of surgeries, appointments and paperwork turned me into Barbara Bush.  Thank you for buying me a jacket (that at the time was three sizes too small) to remind your mom that before cancer…before children…I was a beautiful bad-ass woman ready to conquer the world.  I lost sight of that when I could not conquer cancer on your behalf.  That jacket no longer hangs with imaginary possibilities.  It perfectly zips up over my size 8 low-rise jeans and new DKNY underwear, minus the muffin top.

Born from your love of Belldini clothing, you also left me with Joseph Essaghian.  The best accessory is a good friend, and he has been a big brother, spiritual advisor, and a mentor to your mom.  Might I add, that his generosity, and my made-for-hoarders closet of Belldini clothes, has been the saving grace that keeps me from looking like Wednesday Adams of The Adams Family.

Check Bloomfield Dr. off your list, too.  This year I lost the emotional weight of the house that weighed me down with memories of you.  It was impossible to move forward when my surrounding geography demanded that I look back.

Maybe the biggest weight that was lifted was my own anger.  Why did you leave me?  No matter how many bible classes I attended, your mom was not a spiritual giant, immune from the looming thought that I must have done something wrong for The Almighty to take your life.  In the book “Beyond Tears:  Living After Losing a Child” Barbara G. writes

I thought I had been singled out, punished for some unknown deed…

What was God thinking?  So, I stepped down from the podium at your funeral with the thought of never re-entering Sunday spiritual civilization.  But late summer of 2012 that all changed, too.  After driving by a particular church approximately 500 times, I took yet another big plunge in my life and entered the door of a thriving and elegant worship center housed in a former Wal-Mart.  As an architect’s daughter I wondered if they were in the business of restoring a Wally World, what could they do with a human life?

From my first step into the sanctuary, they snagged your mom’s attention, and I made a decision to pull on my big-girl panties and deal with all the issues that were holding me back from living a happy life without you.  To quote the book “Transcending Loss”

I was lucky in finding some very fine pastoral ministers who could touch my pain instead of letting me run away from it….The ministers didn’t come and cry with me, but they had the insight to articulate in a pastoral way. Their words could pierce into my defenses, could pierce into my heart, could pierce through to who I was in a way that ultimately was very healing.

Thank you that on your 27th Birthday you blew out the candles and wished that I would have a good life without you.  Your dream is coming true, and my world is finding order, even down to my underwear.

I miss you, my Birthday girl.

Love,

Momoushka

Key Notes:

  • Megan was a no-nonsense kind of woman.  We tried on clothes before purchasing, and if they didn’t fit we didn’t buy them.  It was very unusual for her to purchase a few things for me that I had no chance of wearing at the time.  Her goal for me was not to be thin, but to be fit.  With a high incidence of cancer and high blood pressure in my family, maintaining my weight is paramount to healthy living.
  • I continue to purge my closet of things that are too big, and items that hold big, bad memories of Megan’s last days.  Even last week I realized “Why would I still keep and wear the dress that I wore to Megan’s funeral?”  It’s outta here…heading for e-Bay.
  • It is normal to feel angry at God after the death of a loved one.  God is big enough to handle it.

On A Lighter Note:

  • The Urban Dictionary defines swaggin’ as walking with meaning.  It’s a word I just learned at my new multi-racial church.
  • Belldini leggings are THE BEST in the world!  Sorry you never got to try them, Megan, but I’m lovin’ them!
  • In my generation ‘thongs’ are flip flops that you wear on your feet…not a piece of string that some define as underwear.
  • The most famous underwear discussion in history?  MTV – 1992 – Bill Clinton is asked “Boxers or Briefs?”

There’s No Place Like Home

25 Nov

I must have looked like an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, backing out of the Bloomfield driveway with an SUV haphazardly stuffed with everything but the kitchen sink.  After a jam-packed month moving truck loads of life, I lacked the obsessive/compulsive energy to carefully arrange the last of my possessions.  The comedy of the unorganized mess was compounded when I threw the dog pillow with woobie blanket behind the driver’s seat and hoisted Megan’s two little puppies onto the pile of life possessions.  After a deep sigh, I fired up the ignition and zoomed onto the expressway toward my new life and home.

While my heart wanted ‘the girls’ to easily transition to their new environment, time had only afforded me one opportunity to introduce them to their new residence.  I was concerned about them, but thankfully it didn’t take long for the motion of the car and smoothness of the highway to lull Winnie and Buffy into a place of peace.  As I made the exit toward the new residential area, it was my mind that seemed to drift off and I missed the next turn.

Sweet Jesus…The girls went wild.

One seven pound and one seventeen pound bag of fur panted in panic, demonstrating that after only one home inspection they had a clear doggie compass pointed to our destination.  In the darkness of an unfamiliar winding roundabout neighborhood, I turned up the sound on my Sprint GPS System.  I call her Lola because she is sort of like a prostitute that leads the unsuspecting down the wrong path.   With every twist and turn I could see in the rear view mirror my wide-eyed pooches looking at me like “Wrong Way!”  After Lola suddenly told me that she was not  in service for the area, she arbitrarily came back on the speaker and landed me in some dog-gone retirement center.  The only remaining route of wisdom was to pull back onto the main road to the original missed turn and try again to find my way home.

Upon arrival, the girls pounced for the front door to greet the humans, Jason and Sondra;  then,  without apology, they introduced themselves to Tootsie the Wiener Dog by sniffing her butt.  Once that ritual was over, I knew I had officially arrived at my new geographical location.

Dogs have such an uncomplicated view of life.  Eat, sleep, poop.  They are stirred up with gratefulness when I come home with a new econo-size bag of Kibbles and Bits.  And if I allow a morsel of bacon to slip from the counter into their watering mouths, its like I just got the party started.

The girls have been trying to tell me for some time that the party was over at Bloomfield Dr.  Maybe I should have listened to their GPS system sooner.  It was no easy task to transition from 7200 sq. feet of memories to a streamlined existence in 700 sq. ft.  All I know, is I’m on the other side now.  And this Thanksgiving weekend, as I napped for the first time in months (with pooches at my side), I felt like

There is no place like home.

Key Notes:

  • It is strongly recommended that those that have lost a loved one not make a major move until the year anniversary.  (I’m rapidly approaching five years since Megan’s death.)
  • I’ve read that moving a dog to a new home is like moving a human to a foreign country.  Winnie and Buffy’s easy transition to new surrounds makes them ‘international travelers.’

On a Lighter Note:

  • Week one in our new environment, Winnie bamboozled Sondra into sewing her a new little doggie bed so she could have a cushy view by the front glass door.
  • I’m not far off in spoiledness.  Sondra had my bed completely made for my first night in the new apartment.

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Footnotes

27 Oct

A few weeks ago during Sunday service the young girl in front of me was casually surfing the internet for new shoes via her iPad.  The Gestapo mom in me wanted to lean over, shut the laptop and say, “Don’t disrespect our pastor by shopping.  Give your feet a rest for a few hours.”

I reminded myself to ‘mind my own business,’ especially since her mama was sitting right next to her.  The incident did derail my focus, as I began to imagine how thrilled Pastor would be to know that the state-of-the-art video/broadcast system that pumps his message around the world, also freely downloads high-speed internet so anyone can transport to the magical world of Shoe Dazzle.

What’s not to love about Shoe Dazzle?  Slick and oh so shiny high heels, all for the auto-renewal monthly price of $39.95.  And to think that Kim Kardashian picks them out just for me, mails them, and MONTHLY charges my credit card.  She’ll even do it during church!

Behold the power of shoes.

If I’m being frank, my daughter was somewhat of a shoe whore, and “if the shoe fits” she bought them in every color.  At times she even bought a back-up pair of a favorite, just in case she wore out the first pair.  Shoe-mania exhausted me.

Shoes were on the agenda this week as I downsized from 7200 sq. ft to about 700.  I had done so much already to distribute Megan’s personal property.  However, her floor to ceiling, four-foot wide rack of shoes remained a mental Goliath.  Every pair of shoes in the Shoe Closet said so much about Megan’s life; where she walked, the places she had been.  It was like a fortress of memories that stood strong against downsizing.

With economy of space in mind, attack was on Thursday’s agenda. The day began with pulling out Megan’s favorite pair of slip-on high heels…steeped in history.  We bought them at Dillard’s where I warned her about coveting the most uncomfortable pair of high heels known to mankind.  Megan’s mantra was:

Sometimes comfort doesn’t matter.  When a shoe is freakin’ fabulous it may be worth a subsequent day of misery. – Clinton Kelly

In spite of my mom warning, Megan wore them for the first time to a 50th anniversary party for my parents.  Dressed in her new shoes, we served cake and punch to all the senior citizens as she writhed in misery in her freakin’ fabulous shoes.  She started this little dance of slipping her feet in and out of her Cinderella slippers, hoping for shoe respite.  I continued my ‘cut and serve’ duties, but regretfully the serrated knife did not come with a cloth or glass to drip off the extra gooey icing.

Catastrophe was suddenly on the menu.  Megan continued to shuffle from foot to foot as I moved the cake knife toward the waste basket behind me.  We collided.  In slow motion we watched as a huge dollop of butter crème icing slither down into the pointed toe of the shoe that her swollen foot had just slipped out of.

We laughed.  It was spontaneous combustion.  The process of her spooning out the frosting made me giggle even more.  In the midst of polite company, my girl was squealing.

Sweet Jesus….we laughed.

Yesterday, the joy echoed through my heart, and my solution was to take a picture of the shoes for the blog and box them up for the nearest Goodwill.  I wished them well, hoping the party shoes would provide great joy for their new diva. And I hope its future owner never has to say, ‘I think there is something sticky in the bottom!”

But the downfall of my day was the black fuzzy Juicy Couture slippers.  There was a time that they said, “Mom, they are warm and stylin’…and my feet are always cold.” But as her chronic illness progressed, they were the only shoes she wore.  Months of hospital care showed damage to the fabric from bodily fluids and I.V spills.  They represented a woman who went from form to function in fashion as her health slowly declined.  In her last days, with cane in hand, the Goliath closet closed its doors to dazzling shoes, and she rarely opened it.

In the midst of working furiously to downsize, a pair of slippers made me sob all day.  Why had I hung on to them?  But that was then.  This is today.  As I move toward change, I boxed those slippers up for landfill garbage; not for Goodwill, not for recycle.  I felt strongly that I didn’t want anyone walking in those shoes.

As for my shoes, I streamlined down to what I adore and actually wear.  There is that old saying, “you don’t get where you’re going by walking in someone else’s shoes.”  I’m not entirely sure where I’m going, but my remaining shoes are freakin’ fabulous!

Key Notes:

  • I have had tremendous help from my family in downsizing my life, physically and emotionally.  But a key-note is at the end of the day they let me emotionally decide on each and every item as to its destiny.
  • The first item I bought after Megan’s death?  A pair of Cole Haan boots.  Dreamy.
  • A gift I received from my neighbor in the days after Megan’s death?  A plaque that says, “One shoe can change your life – Cinderella.”  It hangs now in my closet and will transfer over to my new residence.
  • Shoes give us confidence to step forward.
  • Jobs have been won, and lost, based on the quality of ones shoes.  Keep yours polished.  If your puppy has made a snack of your favorite heel, a good local cobbler can normally repair them to new condition.  If you can’t afford much, check your local thrift store, or stalk the sales room at my favorite Von Maur.

On a Lighter Note:

  • Aunt Shirley told me a judge once told her “Never trust a woman in red shoes.”  I own two pair; leather and patent.
  • I have bought one pair of shoes from Shoe Dazzle.  Not during church hours.  They were beautiful and shiny, and the five-inch stiletto heels were so high that I returned them with the realization that I’d need a walker to safely navigate through life.
    • In case you are wondering, they were freakin’ fabulous black patent pumps, with hot pink painted bottoms.
  • Oprah says, “I still have my feet on the ground.  I just wear better shoes.”

Note to Megan: In Your Eternal Stress-Free Life:

  • I know, I know.  I will find my way in life walking in my own shoes on the path uniquely designed for me.  I promised to not wear your clothes, but don’t recall any promises about shoes.  So those designer sparkly sandals and the leopard print “Jackie O” high heels are now mine, mine, all mine to wear and enjoy.  I will fondly think of you when people stop and ask me “Where did you get those shoes?”

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The Memorial Speech for Mom – Beverly Jesse Wilscam

9 May

Beverly Jesse Wilscam – May 26, 1931 – May 1, 2012

I can remember it like it was yesterday.  Preschool at Joslyn Art Museum.  I was three years old and yet can still recall making a big mess of it as I finger-painted in the midst of the great masters of art. Without a doubt, color and design were wired into me at an early age, and I remain so grateful to mom for getting me there.

I didn’t have to worry about separation anxiety, as mom sat on a marble bench just down the hallway knitting the hours away.  Just to be sure she hadn’t left me, I would occasionally peak my head out the door.  The visual picture was a constant.  Mom’s gaze fixed downward on the rhythm of the needles.

She was a knitting machine.

Mom had learned the craft when she was just 8 years old.  For her, art class was replaced with knitting – mandatory for both boys and girls.  The task was to make 6” squares, which were later sewn into blankets for the troops in World War II.  Mom never stopped knitting.

The art of knitting was perfectly suited to my mom’s personality.  It’s precise.  Absolute.  A pattern to follow.  Any deviation from that pattern produces utter disaster.  And at the end of the last loop was an item of function, be it blankets or mittens or scarves.

My lifelong friend Sue Kalina posted on Facebook, “Bev was a no-nonsense force of nature.”

Mom and Dad surely were progressive thinkers by sending Jessalyn and I to preschool at the museum, but life was not one big coloring book for me.  Reading words was a challenge, from early on.  There were those stand-offs at the library when I would trot out with a big stack of picture books, and the Reading Gestapo would send me marching back for books with a higher ratio of words vs. pictures.  And there was that day in the New Orleans library that all ten of my selections were rejected.  I rolled my eyes thinking “you are so unreasonable!”

I do not know why I thought I could out wit or outlast Beverly Wilscam.  My mastermind decided to pick out the necessary 10 books, with no intention of reading them.  Little did I know that there was a short quiz at the end of that week, and I failed on 10 counts.

Beverly did pass me on to several summer school classes for remedial and speed reading.  There I was, slumped over in an unairconditioned classroom…but somewhere it clicked.  You see, Mom had a pattern that included all three daughters graduating from college, and there was no deviating from the design.  No nonsense.  Non-negotiable.

There was also no deviating from several other Mom mantras.  The list included “Because I said so…” “I’m your mother, not your friend.”  And “Sit and act like a lady.”  “Do you have a bra on?” is a personal favorite.  But the grand prize winner is “Nice girls don’t chew gum.”  Gum snapping and popping did not equal lady like behavior, and even in recent adult years I would beg my friends to not chew gum in mom’s presence.

Mom continued to knit.

The thread that none of us imagined being woven into our lives was watching my daughter (Beverly’s granddaughter) courageously battle adrenal cancer.  As Megan’s health declined over 44 months, and I teetered on the edge of utter exhaustion, I asked Mom how I was going to do it?  Mom’s reply was “You can do whatever life requires of you.”

Mom continued to knit, but her focus was now a wardrobe of caps for her beautiful but bald granddaughter.  Though my daughter’s life ended in 2008, Mom continued to knit and pearl close to 1,000 caps that she donated to the Immanuel Cancer Center.

It should come as no surprise that Beverly Jesse Wilscam’s life ended with the same absoluteness with which she lived.  A few weeks prior to her death she privately told me, “Valerie, I want to die.  Can I tell you that?  I’m 80 years old, and I’ve had a full and complete life, and I just can’t keep living in pain.”

On Saturday, April 28 mom signed into Hospice.  No heroic measures were to be used to save her life.  Within just a few hours of that decision, Mom began to command my attention – the first order of business was to talk with Jessalyn and Adrienne.  She called her sister.  She talked to her brother.  I knew, without a doubt, that Mom was organizing her affairs.  I sent Uncle Fred to bring Dad back to say good-bye.  Mom called for Pastor Peggy.

In the midst of a very relational bucket list, Mom told me that my sisters and I should divide the sterling silver.

By five o’clock, when the morphine arrived, she began to slip into a deep sleep, waking up enough the next day for Father Tom to share the Catholic sacrament of last rights.  Hospice had thought mom would last one to two weeks.  But my mom had made up her mind.  Seventy nine hours after signing the hospice papers, in the presence of her brother, Mom drew a few short breaths and died.  No crowd.  No fanfare.  No nonsense.

Beverly Jesse Wilscam lived through The Great Depression, and watched and waited as my dad shipped off to Korea.  She is a woman that survived five major brain aneurysm surgeries and breast cancer.

And the woman, who said she wasn’t smart enough to graduate from college, watched three daughters graduate from college, and my two sisters’ advance on to master’s degrees.  She lived to see granddaughter’s Megan and Caitlin and grandson Ryan graduate from college, with Alexander and Tyler on track to make higher education a clean sweep.  Might I add that on Thursday night of this week my younger sister will receive “Teacher of the Year” for her district.  And well, my older sister is so savvy in her field that world economies need her.

Maybe it is appropriate that Mom died on May Day with a basketful of knitting needles at her bedside, ending 80 years of life, and 72 years of knitting.

In memory of my mom, remember you can do whatever life requires of you.

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Words With Friends

23 Mar

Dear Megan,

You’ve been gone four years.   I don’t miss the loneliness and isolation that accompanied your terminal illness, but I do miss your words, “Talk to me, Momoushka.”

On this anniversary of your death, here’s the Chat Soup that you love.

I have a “Words With Friends” boyfriend.  Maybe you don’t know about Words With Friends. Sarah Blaskovich writes:

If you’re new to WWF, it’s a crossword-like iPhone app where players make words on a game board. It’s akin to a game of Scrabble, except that the points systems differ.

There probably isn’t a heavenly equivalent of playing scrabble on a smart phone, but on earth the game is sheer joy.  I started out with random opponents, but recently settled on playing with just a few and my new WWF boyfriend.  Evanders and I were matched up on a random game (destiny – 11 WWF points).  We quickly found ourselves to be equally yoked in vocabulary and strategy, and at any given time we have over half a dozen games going.

Words with Friends may be the only thing we have in common.  I just scored 55 years on February 27.  Evanders is 35.  I’m white.  He’s black.  I make my living at creative thinking.  He’s a construction worker.  My job sits securely on Nebraska ground in front of two huge computer monitors.  He scales the heights of scaffolding in the phosphate mines of Florida.  In our limited communication via WWF text, we’ve entertained the idea of applying for The Amazing Race.  Remember a few years ago I thought I would enter The Amazing Race with my BFF Janet?    We ditched the idea when we determined that Janet and I brought no life skills (zero – 13 WWF points) to the start line.  Now, with Evander being able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, I just may be back in the game.

Sweet Jesus…not ‘maybe’….I am back in the game.

The year 2011 was a year where I wasn’t writing a book, or a blog, because a new chapter was being written in my life.  I’ll tell you more later about the transition of downsizing a lifetime of material possessions and memories of you….and the transition to a new business and business partner.  But for today I want to end on just a few words.

I miss you (13 WWF points).

Love,

Momoushka

Key Notes:

  • Words With Friends is the most addictive iphone app with over 4 million downloads.
  • I wrote the least in 2011, but compiled the most information for the book “Put Up Your Umbrella.”

On A Lighter Note:

  • The two things I’m addicted to (Words with Friends and The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team) both come from the great state of Texas.
  • Need a WWF point calculator?  Click here.
  • There is no chance for m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e between me and my WWF boyfriend.  Words With Friends only gives you seven letters.  Evanders is also just about my son’s age (cougar – 9 WWF points)
  • I do not play Words with Friends during normal business hours.  (Well, maybe once.)  My new business partner, Garrett, has promised to check me into rehab if he catches me.

On a Mom Note:

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Happy 31st Birthday, Megan Bosselman

27 Jan

The two hardest things to say in life are hello for the first time and goodbye for the last. – Moira Rogers

January 27, 1981 - Megan Bosselman Our First "Hello!"

Dear Megan,

It was minutes before midnight on your birthday, and I wasn’t feeling that writing magic when words flow together.  I’m revising your annual birthday message and  it and will post by tomorrow. If you were on Planet Earth, this weekend would still be full of “Birthday Weekend” events.

My gift to you this birthday is that I am going to finish your book this year.  My life is moving on.  I will update you on the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team.  And last, but not least, I am changing my hair color this morning from Jay Leno grey and black to “I’m not in mid-life crisis but I’m going back to a younger looking hair color brown.”  Good-bye to the old, in with the new.

Try to move away from your eternal stress-free life to check the revised blog.

your mom…

 

Meet the Girlfriend

5 Jul

I had only seen glimmers of her.  As I mentioned in a previous blog, I’m only allowed to ask my son once a year if he has a girlfriend. I used that ticket by January 3, 2011.  Because of my lack of self-control, I was moved into information prison, with no possibility for parole and no privileges to pry into the private life of my son.

Solitary confinement is hard for any loving mom.  The good news is that even in the state penitentiary they have computers.  Ryan must have forgotten that his mom makes her living on the world-wide web.  So, if I’m friends with a friend of Ryan’s on Facebook and they happen to post a picture of my son and his girlfriend…..

I think everyone had met her before me.  Well, I don’t think, I know.  Ryan doesn’t bring any old girl home to old mom.  If it’s a “Meet the Girlfriend” dinner, I know in advance, “This is the one in whom my son’s heart trusts.”

I was put on red alert sometime in May when Ryan told me he would be coming home in June with Kate.  I resisted the temptation for the Spanish Inquisition.  I sat by my Smartphone for close to a month waiting for the text that would tell me when and where.

The rendezvous was P.F. Changs.  The hour was one p.m.  I was 30 minutes early.  The restaurant manager offered to seat me at a table, but I wanted to be able to instantly hug Kate when I met her.  I pre-calculated the difficulty of that task in a semi-circle padded booth and opted to patiently wait in the foyer.  Clearly, I had obsessed over every detail.

Suddenly there she was.  The one in whom my son’s heart trusts.  More beautiful than the ‘stolen’ Facebook pictures.  My lovely than I ever imagined.

This month marks seven years since Megan’s preliminary cancer diagnosis.  Kate, with her almond brown eyes and witty sense of humor brings new joy to my son.  After seven years of walking through the valley of the shadow of death, I saw my son truly happy.  Unmistakeable.  Undeniable.  My boy is happy.

Today, July 5, 2011, also marked the news that Ryan passed his national exam for Project Management.  His career is flying.  And for today my heart is soaring.

Life Lessons From The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders

31 May

Season Five, Episode 2, of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders – Making the Team favorite moment:  During the panel interviews, DCC Director Kelli Finglass, asks four cheerleader hopefuls:

“Line by line, starting with you, say the national anthem…”

Ms. Finglass defined the moment as “painful”.  In the privacy of my own home, I, too, squirmed.  Under pressure, could I solo the song word for word?   When the show was over, I dashed to my computer monitor to Google The Star Spangled Banner.

As I hummed a few bars in my mind, I realized, probably not.  I get hung up on “O’er the ramparts we watch’d.”  Opening up my faithful Webster Dictionary, I clearly catalogued ‘rampart’ to memory by definition.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago.  My desk calendar was marked for the 15th of May for preliminary DCC tryouts.  I dropped Sunni Cranfill a note letting her know she would be in my prayers.  She emailed back to remind me that the veterans return on May 27th for final try-outs and the panel interview.

Panel Interviews?  My Scooby-Do ears perked up and I couldn’t help myself. Ignoring my mantra of “Resist the Temptation” I marched forward in giving the two-year veteran (and former Miss Texas) unasked for, unsolicited, and completely free advice.

I told her to be sure to know the words to the national anthem.  And if you are going to give free advice, why stop there?  I added:

My mom and I were talking about the national anthem…and we both think it is really difficult.  Mom told me Congress discussed changing it a while back to either God Bless America or America the Beautiful.  I was really surprised!  In a way, the words to O Say Can You See don’t flow so much, from a literary standpoint.  I had to look up the word ‘rampart’ after last year’s DCC interviews.  And I think the national anthem is further complicated by years of standing around groups of people who make up the words as they go along.  Why would I think the guy next to me drinking his brewsky knows the words?  Just because he goes to every Red Sox Game?  Is it broad stripes, bright stripes….hum hum hum stripes?  I think people even screw that up!

Why did I write all that to my friend Sunni?  Yes, the brewsky guy is pretty funny.  I’ve also heard on good authority if you don’t know the words to a song just sing ‘watermelon.’  Had I’d known that life lesson when I emailed Sunni, I surely would have thrown that morsel in, too.

What’s not so funny is that during Megan’s cancer journey explaining myself became my absolute pet peeve.  Nearly every day I had a phone call wondering why I wasn’t taking Megan to Nebraska Med Center?  (Her renowned endocrinologist worked at the Med Center, and consulted with her oncologist at Methodist Eastabrook Cancer Center.  In addition, Megan’s urologist was trained at Nebraska Med Center.)  Or I was asked as why we didn’t drive Megan up to Mayo Clinic?  (Megan was on a trial study supervised by her oncologist and Mayo Clinic.  Also we did go see the world expert at NIH who specializes in adrenal cancer research and studies.)  After the big boys of medicine were discussed, my daily dose of free advice rounded up with vitamins and magic potion drinks.  Wow, they’d give me the first case free.  (We tried it, and the acidity in the juice tore Megan’s stomach apart.)

Sweet Jesus….it’s been seven years.  The senseless use of my time as so many others demanded an explanation on the choices I’d made based on the extensive research I’d already done.

But I’m a human like the rest of you, and before I shelled out my free advice to Sunni Cranfill regarding third grade memory work on the Star Spangled Banner, I failed to research her talents and patriotism.  No sooner than my free advice was out there in cyber space, the truth appeared in the form of a You Tube video.

A life lesson well-learned.  I’ll remember to be slow to give unasked for words of wisdom.  In front of a crowd of 80,000 my friend knew all the words.

Key Notes:

  • Sunni Cranfill advanced to Training Camp for the 2011-2012 Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.
  • The three women singing in the video are Brittany Evans, Cassie Trammell, and Sunni Cranfill.  Sign them up for next year’s Super Bowl!
  • Congress proclaimed The Star Spangled Banner the U.S. National Anthem in 1931.
  • Regarding unsolicited comments, Miss Manners says, “Sadly, most of what people say in passing is the first thing that pops into their heads, whether or not it is obvious, silly or even true.”
  • Miss Manners’s 10 Worst Faux Pas cites my offense at
    • 2.  HELPFULNESS  When this consists of minding other people’s business, by volunteering, unasked, your opinion of how they should lead their lives.

On A Lighter Note:

  • Joe, the art student that lives with me, told me that he did not know what a rampart was in third grade.  However, he now knows its exact definition and said ‘I probably learned it on a video game.’

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