It’s two years today since my mom died. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss her. Not an hour that I don’t think of her. I wish things had gone differently. I wish she had recovered. Sigh.
I was thinking about her today, about what she might like to do if she were here. One thing she loved about living in California was the produce, the variety of ethnic restaurants, and the beautiful springtime flowers. OK, that’s three things. So I decided to go to our neighboring town, which has a Tuesday Farmers’ Market, and check out the produce. I was spurred not only by her, but also because a friend brought some gorgeous strawberries to our house on Sunday, and I was like, wow, what a difference between these and what I get at the grocery store. And of course, she got them at the Farmers’ Market. So I got some strawberries, some apricots, and some nectarines and peaches. Seems kinda early for nectarines and peaches, but maybe that’s just because the spring has been a cold one, and it doesn’t seem like mid-June yet. If my mom were here, we’d talk about that. She’d remember when she was growing up in the Central Valley, and the fruits weren’t bred to come earlier or later or whatever, and she’d tell me about her grandfather’s orchard, and how he grew the best fruits and vegetables, how she loved going around the farms with him. He was hired by the irrigation district to control the water, and would go from farm to farm turning the water on and off for the farmers. So even though he didn’t have a big farm, just a small orchard, he knew a lot of farmers, and they were friends, and they would give him some of whatever they were growing. My grandma says that they didn’t really know much about the Depression going on around them, because they grew so much of their own food, and his job didn’t dry up. Yes, they read about things, and they heard things, but farmers are pretty poor to begin with, so it wasn’t as though they had been living the high life of investors and millionaires and then crashed down.
I was talking to my dad the other night, and he was telling me about some books that he liked. Mysteries. He was telling me about his favorite characters, and how when the author carries one character from book to book, you start to feel like you know them. And then the author gets old and dies, and you feel like the characters have died, too. And it reminded me of how my mom and I used to talk on the phone, and she would tell me about her favorite books, and bore the crap out of me, because I’m not really interested in Mysteries (unless they’re Dick Francis, because they have horses), and too much detail can just kill you. My dad didn’t go into that much detail, didn’t bore the crap out of me. I miss being bored the crap out of sometimes. Sigh. But I am very thankful to have my dad. Thankful that my mom got us together all those years ago, so I’m not an orphan now. I wonder if Richard feels like an orphan sometimes, since he hasn’t met his father. I’ll tell you, there’s something to be said for getting married and having kids and being a bit more traditional. Of course, that’s no real protection against being an orphan. But at least knowing both parents is a plus.
I thought about calling my Grandma. I can’t do it. I didn’t call her on my mom’s birthday, either. And she didn’t call me. I suspect we both can’t do it. It’s too hard. I didn’t call Richard, though I did email him. Maybe I would have emailed Grandma, but she “doesn’t understand computers”, as she says. Sigh again. I’m tired of missing my mom, even though half the time she drove me nuts, especially those last months, when she was feeling like crap, and her consideration for others kinda went to pot. Even though there was that, I still miss her. And from what I hear from others who have lost a loved one, I always will. Sigh.