THE LAST JAR OF JELLY

My late wife was an old-fashioned girl in some ways. She took many of the baking and cooking skills she had learned from her mother, and put them into practice. Every year we grew a garden, and she would can vegetables and jellies, from the produce that the garden supplied. I always remember the jars of tomatoes she would can every year. She would line them all up on the kitchen counter, after filling them, and we would all sit around and wait for that “ping” as each lid sealed. Then, a few days later, they went into the pantry—the celebration was over. After she died, I canned a few jars myself, for old times’ sake, but it just wasn’t the same.

But yesterday, as I was cleaning out the pantry, I came across a jar of jelly that, in of itself, was no surprise because we grew strawberries and raspberries and she had made a lot of jelly. However, this one was special because it was chokecherry, and I didn’t think there was any left. You see, one day I took my old lab Gus for a walk, and on this country road we found bushes loaded down with Chokecherries. I knew they were there, but usually someone else beat me to the picking. So on that warm, late summer day, I went home, got a plastic pail, and filled it up with the fruit. When I presented the pail full of berries to her—expecting praise—all I got was scorn and a rebuke, “Do you know how much work it is to make chokecherry jelly?” She went on and on about the pits, and the straining, and finally I just took old Gus and left for a quieter place. That’s what garages are for.

A couple of days later I came home from town and there, on the kitchen counter, were a few jars of chokecherry jelly, freshly canned. I thanked her for that and she told me, “Never again.” Gradually I used up all of the jelly and went on to eat the other jellies, just glad that for a short time, I had had my beloved chokecherry jelly. It was shortly after that when she took sick and the canning stopped. I think I hid that jar of jelly because I didn’t want to share it with the grandkids, and then I forgot about it. Yesterday, I found it while cleaning out the pantry. My first impulse was to not open it because it was irreplaceable. Then, on second thought, I knew in my mind that it would just go to waste that way and that was no way to honor her. So this morning I made some toast, and carefully opened up that jar of jelly. I’ve tasted better, but after all, it’s been three or four years since it was canned. But then, it wasn’t about the taste, was it?

No, it wasn’t about the taste at all. It was about the love that made her can those berries for me even though she didn’t want to. It was about loosening that lid yesterday, when I knew in my heart that the last person—the last hand-- who had tightened that lid on, had been hers. It wasn’t about the jelly at all. It was about her. You know when you get married you say those words, “until death do you part.” I have found that death hasn’t really parted us; it’s only made it harder to communicate. The death they were speaking of wasn’t just her death. It will only come about when we are both gone. As for now if you come to my house; don’t expect any chokecherry jelly to be served.

AND IN THE END

A while back I visited a friend who had terminal cancer. It’s always so hard to find the right words to say. You know and they know, that baring a miracle, life may not go on much longer. That someone whose life was always so carefully planed and lived in such careful order, is now relegated to taking each day as it comes. I have usually been able to sense what’s going on in people’s minds by reading their eyes. The eyes seem to be a virtual porthole into people’s thoughts and if you look deep enough it’s as if you can see into their very souls. It’s there that you see the fear and sadness, determination or resignation but almost always you also see a very tired person. Sometimes you need to work through the tears that can cloud that window, into the mind behind, to get the whole picture but if you look hard, it’s always there.

We have all had friends or family that simply slept away when the end came. Laughing and joking one moment and then whisked away to their just reward as if they had just won a contest. No pain and suffering. No long goodbyes or a litany of last wishes. Just turn off the lights, the party’s over. For many of us that would be our choice wouldn’t it be? But it’s a choice—rich or poor, famous or insignificant-- sadly we don’t get to make. It’s just not our decision to make and in the end death will become the great equalizer amongst all of us. We start our lives with a clean slate and we end it the same way.

One would hope that either way we would be ready for it when it comes and ready for what lies beyond. I sometimes see death as a graduation of sorts and every one knows you can’t graduate unless you’ve done your homework. Unlike in this world however-- there is no written record or file to go to. It’s entirely between you and your creator. The files are sealed and no one else can see them. We all know what the criteria is to get there and one can only hope that we got a passing grade. For those who survive us, how we led our lives will be a glimpse at how we may go on from there but there are no assurances that anyone knows the whole story.

I know this hasn’t been a very happy essay and when I write books I like to always end them well. So many times now, when a loved one passes, we call the time when we all get together to honor them, a celebration of life. I like that idea because funerals just seem too stuffy for me and that isn’t how we want to be remembered? We worked hard in life to achieve what we did and darn it, it’s time someone pays attention to what we accomplished. Otherwise it will all be forgotten and all to often, unless we were good at beating our own drum, many people didn’t know what we did or how we lived anyway. It’s hard to get any recognition in this world now days and it’s a shame that it had to come to this but let’s not squander this last chance to celebrate a great life. Steve Maraboli said, “I don’t want my life to be defined by what is etched in a tombstone. I want it to be defined in what is etched in the lives and hearts of those I touched.” The friend I mentioned at the start of this letter has now passed away. Meer words will not do justice to what he meant to his friends and family. I know I’m richer for having known him and I look forward to seeing him again, on the other side. Rest in Peace my friend.

THE WEATHER

                                                          

So when there is nothing else to talk about up here in the winter we can always talk about the weather or lack of it. This winter seems to be one of the coldest ones I have experienced and this morning I went to Brainerd and bought a brass monkey and put him out on the deck because I have always wanted to witness that meteorological castration my father always talked about when I was growing up. So far everything seems to be intact so I’m not sure at what temperature this phenomenon takes place. It was thirty-one below this morning and the weatherman is saying on Monday the really cold air is coming so yippee. Watch out monkey.

My dog has frozen bladder syndrome, which enables her to cut down to one trip a day outside. I think if I was forced to go out there I would be wearing a bag or making other arrangements. I have friends who escape the cold by going south and they like to call and tell me what the temperature is down there. It’s kind of like sitting down on the curb, next to a homeless man and eating a quarter pounder and fry’s while he’s having something he found in a dumpster. I could go south if I wanted too but the minute I left there would be some January heat wave up here and the jet steam would blow straight north to south and it would be six degrees in Fort Meyers and fifty up here and all I could think about is the money I wasted. Beside there’s nothing to write about down there and I have to come up with something.

Yesterday on the news I watched some people jumping into a frozen lake to raise money for some charity and I’m thinking why not just give them the money and save their anatomy.  That brass monkey might not be the only one having problems. I fell into a frozen lake once and I swear I saw my dead grandma and my wife heard what I yelled, and it cost me six dollars in the swear jar when I got in the house. I would have thought only the dog could hear something yelled in that octave but no I guess.

I was in Mesa for five days for Christmas and I swear if one more person down there, asks me where I came from and crosses her arms and legs and shivers when I say Minnesota, I am going to car jack that lady, put her in the trunk of the car and drop her off in Minot in her underwear. I also get tired of trying to answer their questions, about what we do in January, when its thirty one below because I am trying to work on my lying at the request of the parish Priest and although I know its not cold where he says I might be going if I don’t shape up, it would be just my luck the Vikings would win the Super Bowl and that place would freeze over anyway. On second thought maybe global warming will screw that up also.

I have in my possession a bottle of spirits that seems to warm up my posterior when it is consumed and I think, just for medicinal purposes I will have some about now. I am supposed to have only one drink a day and this little baby right here is for April ninth 2015. It will all even out come summer. Oh crap why did I have to say summer? Even the dog perked her ears up and now she wants to go outside.

THE MAN AND HIS MUSIC

                                                

Somehow for me music has always influenced my life and my feelings. Maybe it was because I wished I could say to those I loved, those same words artists said so perfectly in their music. I once had a friend-- who I knew didn’t like most modern music; --ask me what music did I like the most? For me I told him, it was Elvis when he sang, “I loved you because.” It was Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra and “The way you look tonight.” It was Tom Jones and the “Green green grass of home.” Songs that moved your heart and soul and made you want to sing along. It was a wonderful melodious way to communicate with those you cared for. Music was formed to tame the angry beast in all of us. Calm us down and alleviate our fears.

My late wife and I used to go dancing in our younger days. Dancing back then was when you actually held your partner. It was a time when you buried your nose in her soft hair, and smelled her sweet perfume, and your feet just swished away all of your cares and troubles. That little gal who hours before had been bathing kids, and washing dishes, dressed in blue jeans with her hair tied up in pony tail-- was now your princess for the night, clothed in soft silk and satin, and you never felt closer, and basically it was all because the music made you feel that way.

The music took you away from all of the daily troubles we face. It rekindled your soul and your spirit of love. It was a booster shot in a world gone crazy with work and kids and responsibilities. It was payback time for a few fleeting hours for the way you had ignored each other and taken each other for granted, because it was here and now, and you just couldn’t afford to ignore her any longer. It was a musical coupon that you redeemed to bring back the magic into your troubled lives, if only for a short enchanted evening. You drove home physically exhausted, but emotionally fulfilled, and you rode with your arm wrapped around her like high school lovers, even though there was an empty baby seat strapped between the two of you in the family station wagon. You drove forty miles an hour in a fifty-five on the way home because you didn’t want the night to ever end.

Someday, down life’s road, when my new friend and I are out enjoying life, I want to take her in my arms once more, in a special place, and at a special time and have them clear the dance floor for us. I want that spinning crystal ball and that polished hardwood floor where so many hearts once came together to be all ours for just one last dance. I want to hear, Tony B or Old Blue eyes, croon once more  ---“You’re lovely---Never, never change.  Keep that breathless charm. Won’t you please arrange it, cause I love you---Just the way you look tonight.” Ha, I got you humming didn’t I?

Mike Holst