September is a month for memories

Last week was my birthday. It’s the first time in my 59 years of life that my mom hasn’t been part of my special day.

The phone didn’t ring with her happy greeting to be heard, whether it was her version of “Happy Birthday” or sing-songy good wishes.

There was no Hallmark card in the mailbox, which usually included a few bucks for something fun.

And there was no follow-up call the next day from her wanting to know “how much fun I had” the night before.

I miss her cards. I miss her phone calls. I miss my mom.

I found myself thinking about both her and my dad a lot last week, and to some degree, I feel guilty that I didn’t seem to miss my dad as much. I reason with myself that it’s been 15 years since his passing. And I remember how much I missed him in the days, weeks and months that followed, which to some degree made me feel guilty that I missed him so much although Mom was still with us.

I have a love-hate relationship with the month that I was born in. Last year about this time, is when Mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. 

It’s the same month that the Glioblastoma tumor won the 11-month battle my Dad had been fighting.

It’s also the same month that my grandmother and Aunt Doris passed away.

September is that month that our family begins to experience many of the “firsts”, like the first Thanksgiving, Christmas and other holidays, birthdays the like, without them.

September is also the month that brings so many memories to the mind. Last week, my cousin Kelly called to wish me a Happy Birthday. As we talked, our conversation flowed back in time to the various farmsteads that Grandpa and Grandma Meier had lived. We laughed about the farm home that had no running water, which meant you went to fetch water and you went to the outhouse to get rid of the water you fetched. 

She told me how the homeplace where she grew up recently took on a new landscape. The grove of trees that bordered the Martensen farm on the east had all been removed.

That also rekindled a barrage of childhood memories, like the assortment of antique cars – well on theirway to ‘rustville’ that had been stored there for decades – her sister, Brenda, and I would load up the cars with as many of the farm cats that we could corral and took them for “pretend” drives across the countryside.

I recalled the “outdoor” shower they had concocted that honestly consisted of an old metal pail with holes poked through its bottm. The “running” water was provided by whoever as pouring it into the pail and the running part came from us having to run to and from the hose for refills.

I’m wise enough now to know that we can’t turn back the clock or bring back those we miss so much. So, instead, I’ll relish in the sadness and the happiness that September gives me every year.