Tag Archives: death

Clearing Out Clutter

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July 17, 2024

I have been busy looking in corners and clearing out items I no longer am using or no longer need or wish to keep—-a child’s guitar, a computer keyboard, canning jars—-and today I opened a cardboard box of sewing notions and fabric pieces of various sizes. In the box were the last two pages of a letter from my mother—inside this particular box because on the back side of the last page of her letter she had typed instructions on how to replace zippers.

Reading the letter, I can hear my mother’s voice again, chatting about the work she was doing in their garden in Oregon, the photo I had sent of my little son David, soon to be one year old, and the problems facing her mother-in-law (my grandmother) because my grandfather was developing dementia and needing more care. My grandparents lived faraway in Arkansas. 

My mother wrote “I just hope that I die in a hurry while I still find the daily routine a challenge and a pleasure.” 

I cannot stop the tears. She was sixty-one when she wrote those words. Twenty-two years later she would decline relatively quickly and die of congestive heart failure, surrounded by family who loved her. I held her hand. I closed her eyes.

I fold the letter carefully. I will put this scrap of letter into the blue box that holds the last of my mother’s papers. 

Not everything is clutter. 

Kristin Moyer

January 8th, 2024

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I am taking down my Christmas tree, two days after 12th Night, on the 8th day of January, and I am thinking of my mother, who was the creator of Christmas celebrations in my family when I was growing up. 

She was the first generation American in her family, with both parents immigrating from Sweden, and she brought to her marriage all the Swedish traditions of Yuletide celebrations—- evergreens and a fir tree in the house, packages wrapped in white and tied with red ribbon, a Yulbord on Christmas Eve. 

When my mother was growing up, there were journeys by a horse-drawn sleigh across the snow-covered fields to midnight services on Christmas Eve at the little Lutheran church in central Minnesota. Santa arrived at their home to the tune of sleigh bells. Family gathered on Christmas Eve, and extended family gathered for Second Day of Christmas. 

My father came from an English/Scots-Irish family in Arkansas, and I don’t think his mother made much fuss over Christmas at all.  

But my mother did, and she inculcated her four children with the rituals of a Swedish Christmas, though we never celebrated St. Lucia’s Day. We carried my mother’s  traditions forward into our own families when we married. 

All the ornaments now are off my tree, including the very old glass ornaments stored in a box labeled in my mother’s hand-writing, For Bill and Kristin. Now I am struggling with untangling the six strands of white lights from the tree, which has dried out terribly. It stopped taking up water at some point. 

My lower back is hurting. I have to sit down for a bit. I am 81 years old, three years younger than my mother who died on this day, January 8th, 1992, thirty-two years ago. I was at the hospital when she died. My sister and my two children were were there, too. It was a bright sunny January day. 

The last strands of lights are off the tree, and I spread a sheet on the living room floor, press my foot on the lever of the German made tree stand, and gently lift and lower the dried out tree to the sheet.

I haul the awkward tree bundle out of the living room, squeezing past furniture, and out the kitchen door, thinking of my mother on this anniversary of her death.

 Not long ago, I read that a person’s life span is not measured by the actual number of years lived, but by the ripples they created during their lives. 

If I look at the ripples my mother created with her Christmas rituals alone, those ripples will go on for a very long time.

 My older brother had two children, and they have four children total. I have two children, and they have three children total. My sister has two children and one of those sons has four children. Even if only small pieces of my mother’s traditions are carried forward, there are eleven in the newest generation to be the bearers. 

I drop the tree bundle on the kitchen patio. It now is almost dark. Tomorrow I will put the tree up in a corner of the yard, to be a winter shelter for the little birds.

I look up at the dark sky, and turn back to the house. Lots of clean up still to do. 

January 8, 2024

Kristin Moyer

Vigil

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I have been here before

No more desire to eat
No more desire to drink
Comforted by the warmth of bed

My beloved husband was dying and
I did not spend every minute with him
Too busy trying to keep it all rolling
Calling friends to come see him
Doing laundry for gods sake

While children and friends sat with him

Though in the night I was there beside him
The hospital bed pushed next to ours
So I could touch him
And hear the change in his breathing…

There is that

So now I stay in this room 
On a bright May day
With my dying cat
My sweet boy during the pandemic

No more desire to eat
No more desire to drink
Comforted by the warmth of bed


Kristin Moyer
May 27, 2023

The Music of the Cicadas

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June, 2004: the 17-year cicadas Brood X emerge from the ground in Virginia and fourteen other states and the District, as far south as Georgia and as far north as Michigan. 

I was sitting on the garden bench under the maple tree early one morning last month, when I saw my first cicada. It was walking slowly but firmly along the ground toward the maple tree. It hit a piece of large bark mulch, turned upside down, briefly bicycled its legs in the air, then righted itself, and continued its march toward the tree. “March” was the word; it seemed to have a definite idea of its goal. It reached the trunk of the tree and marched up the trunk. 

Since that morning, more and more cicadas have emerged in our yard. We seem to be in a high density area of the emergence of this brood: high density is defined as over a million cicadas per acre. We have over two and a half acres—perhaps over two million cicadas. In the back yard around the maple tree, every leaf of every shrub is covered with the shells of the cicadas, and shells litter the ground like brown confetti.

For the past month the air has been filled with cicadas flying from tree to tree, sometimes bumbling into us. The air is filled, too, with the high-pitched unearthly music of the male cicadas, pleading to the females. During the heat of the day, the sound of the cicadas rises, and I have to retreat to the house to get any peace. 

Now, at the peak of the cycle, the cicadas are busy mating; the females lay their eggs in the outer twigs of the branches, which then break off and fall to the ground. The exhausted bodies of the adult cicadas litter the paths, the patios, and the ground, like tiny revelers after Mardi Gras. The eggs will hatch, and the larvae crawl back into the ground, where they will live for the next 17 years, quietly sucking fluids from the tree roots. At least, that is how I understand their life cycle.

Bill and I are 61 and here to witness this emergence of the cicadas. Our son and our daughter are married, and our daughter has a little girl, age two.

May 31st 2021

Brood X has emerged once more, and Bill is not here to listen to their music. He died of cancer in July of 2010. My granddaughter now is 19, and my son has two children ages 10 and 7. There have been other deaths in my extended family, and other births. The rhythm of our human lives is different from these cicadas; we move to different music, but the beat is the same. 

I read in the paper that the cicadas sing up to the very moment of their death, and that the last note of their music sounds like a heart monitor fading. Now, listening to the music of the cicadas, I sing my own melody, moving forward on the great spool of time. 

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie

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September 20, 2019

Cokie Roberts died this week. I heard her speak once, three years ago, on a panel. She struck me then as a calm, poised, intelligent woman. A journalist, Cokie had been on the Washington scene for many years, beginning back in the day when there were statesmen in the Senate. Former Presidents Bush and Obama recognized her passing with words of praise, as did many in high places.

But here is what hit me: she was almost exactly a year younger than I am. She would have been 76 on her next birthday at the end of December. I will be 77 on January 3rd. And no one remarked on how young she was, how it was a shame that her life was cut short. Because it wasn’t, she had lived a respectable amount of time. As have I.

Also this week I received the news that two friends had been diagnosed with cancer. One was diagnosed with leukemia on Monday, and then the devastating news hit that he had died today. He was strong and vital, a man who skied and climbed mountains, just one year older than I. 

Another friend on Monday told me she was fighting giant cell arteritis. It can cause blindness if not caught in time. It is a case of one’s cells going berserk, as with cancer, but it is an auto immune disease, associated with another auto immune condition poly myalgia rheumatica, which both my friend and I have.

Tomorrow is the first day of autumn, and the leaves are beginning to turn. In the afternoon I will be going to the memorial service of a friend who died of cancer in June. She was 62.

Time is passing.

Time is passing.

Here is one of my father’s favorite poems, by Gerald Manley Hopkins:

Spring and Fall
to a young child

Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Hearts and Roses

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February 15, 2016

On Friday I watched with some amusement as male shoppers at Costco swooped up to the display of red roses, snatched bouquets of a dozen roses, and stuck them in their carts. I  knew they were checking off a mental box, and wondered if the candy aisle was next.

Bill was always conscientious about remembering me on Valentine’s Day. The gifts were not lavish—a small heart-shaped box of chocolates, a bunch of flowers from the grocery store, a card either funny or sentimental—but he never forgot. Usually the gifts appeared at the dinner table, or at breakfast if Valentine’s Day fell on a weekend. I don’t think we ever went out to dinner, but we had a special meal at home.

I have missed those tokens of love since Bill’s death. No cards, no flowers, no chocolates. Poor me. So this year I did something different. I ordered flowers to be delivered to my sister-in-law who always has been loving and kind to me, and who misses Bill as I do.  I sent electronic Valentine’s Day cards to friends, especially those who might not receive any. And I got out the last Valentine’s Day card Bill gave me; it is a Peanuts card, with Snoopy on the front, and inside Bill wrote, “love always.”

I look at those words and realize I do not need flowers and candy; I was loved by a good man, and I have his love always.

And on Sunday, Valentine’s Day, I went to church where a blue-eyed little Girl Scout presented me with the two boxes of cookies I had ordered: Thin Mints. Chocolates for me after all, on Valentine’s Day.

Five Years Later

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July 17, 2015

Dear Bill,

This past Tuesday July 14th was the fifth anniversary of your death. I would rather remember the happy times—your birthday, our wedding anniversary, holidays—but I spent the day thinking of you. My friend Sandra W—you knew her, too—came over at 9:00 am and we spent almost two hours weeding the shady part of the pollinator garden I had planted in your memory in the fall of 2010. Remember that you said, “Now you’ve got a problem!” when we had that area cleared of invasive Japanese honeysuckle right before your death? You were right; the native plants are slowly filling in the space, but the weeds still creep in and need constant battling. But you would be happy to see all the native bees and the many butterflies. I put one of the bird houses you built in the center of the bed, and the old garden bench sits under one of the red bud tree, with your memorial rock next to the bench.

You have gone, but that garden has moved on and grown. I have moved on, too, in a way, out of the deep grief that gripped me for the first few years into an acceptance of this new life on my own. You told me that I could do it, that I was smart and brave and strong. I think you would be proud of all that I have done these past five years. Here are some of them:

Dealt with termite infestation of the house and barn, with falling trees and broken fences, with broken plumbing and broken equipment.

Learned to jump start the pick up truck (because I don’t drive it enough to keep the battery charged.)

Improved the outdoor lighting, had solartubes installed, and got the house, barn and storage shed re-roofed.

Had an energy audit performed on the house and had the attic completely re-insulated.

Had the driveway redone with “chip and seal.” I don’t think you would approve of that, however. Our son sure doesn’t.

Bought an Apple computer, and an iPad and an iPhone.

Adopted a sweet old dog.

Underwent a dental implant, two wisdom teeth extractions, a venous ablation, and a total knee replacement—and I really dreaded the latter without you here to support me.

Drove solo to Minnesota and back, 3000 miles round trip, three times.

Traveled by myself to Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands, and to the Baltic countries.

Traveled with Marie Y (remember her from our Thailand trip?) to the Balkan coast and to Patagonia, where I landed on Cape Horn.

And I took Emma to Africa on a safari, as I promised you I would.

Now I look into the future, with more projects to keep this place together—-the pool to be re-plastered, the house to be painted, new shrubs and trees to be planted—and more places to travel—Great Britain with Emma Rose, the Orkney Islands, a return to New Zealand and Australia to see friends and family, maybe Japan.

And however much time may pass, my love for you will never fade. You are in my heart always.

Your loving wife,

Kristin

Kali, A Good Dog

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May 21, 2015

This morning I put Kali’s ashes to rest under the witch hazel, in the Secret Garden that was one

of Kali’s favorite spots on a hot day. It was gray and raining lightly, but four years ago today

when Kali came to live with me, it was a clear day full of sunshine. I had driven to her foster

home in northern Maryland to pick her up. She was happy to go in the car–I would soon learn

that Kali was always happy to go in the car–and settled down in the backseat while I drove to

Olney to pick up Emma. Emma declared her a “sausage dog” and it was true Kali was

overweight and not the trim Brittany spaniel she would become.

I had read that dogs do not understand that they are traveling distances when going places by

car, and that when introducing a dog to a new home, you should walk the dog there. And so I

parked the car at the turnaround, and the three of us walked the rest of the way, Kali tugging

and straining on the leash. Despite being ten years old, she did not know how to heel or stay or

come. She knew how to sit, though that was hard with her hip dysplasia and arthritis, and she

knew how to pick up a paw on command.

Bringing Kali into my home was one of the best things I could have done. Bill had been dead not

quite a year, and I was emerging out of the fog of the first year of grief into the second year of

mourning, when you realize that there is no magic, he is not coming back, this is how it is going

to be forever. Kali brought me the unconditional love of a sweet dog. I soon learned that Kali’s

one mission in life was keeping track of me. When we were outside as we were much of the

time in good weather, she would wander a bit in the fenced yard, sniffing out chipmunks and

squirrels, but she soon would come bounding back to find me. Now and then she lost me and

would go to the kitchen door and bark, thinking I had gone inside. Then I had to call her, or lay

down my gardening tools and go retrieve her. When I went swimming, she would pace around

the pool anxiously. Most Brittany spaniels like the water, but not Kali.

Inside my small house, Kali stayed close to me, and I bought three beds to keep her old bones

comfortable in the living room, study, and bedroom. The family room was off limits to her, as it

was the cats’ gated refuge, but if I went in there to watch television I would snap on her leash

and hitch her to the ottoman leg: her whining at the gate had worn me down. At bedtime I was

comforted by her gentle snoring on the floor by my bedside, though sometimes I was awakened by

her yipping and her paws scratching against the wall while she pursued a chipmunk in her

dreams.

When I returned home from errands or activities, Kali greeted me at the door, stubby tail

wagging. During her last year, she no longer got off her living room bed to greet me, but simply

raised her head alertly. Now and then I knelt on her bed to rub her belly and cuddle her, with a

doggy smile as my reward.

One morning in January, Kali had great difficulty getting to her feet and then in walking. She

settled on her bed in the study, and although she got to her feet twice, tail wagging hard, she did not

walk. She drank a little water but wanted no food. “Stroke,” said the vet when he came to

the house the next day, and gave her the injection to ease her out of this world, while I cradled

her head and wept. “You’re a good dog, Kali, a very good dog,” I told her.

FullSizeRender (4)And that is what I told her again this morning, while I patted the dirt firmly over the velveteen bag holding her ashes, and the stuffed toy that came with her when I adopted her. And that is what the stone says that marks her resting place: Kali A Good Dog.