Mom was a great cook... but frankly a lousy baker. I began making all the cakes, cookies and "whatevers" at the ripe age of 10. And being the eldest of 6 sisters (my brother only used the kitchen  for eating meals) it became my responsibility to pass down this skill to those other 5 girls. To this day they remain amazing in the kitchen, especially Sister Three.

However... "whatever" did not include pies. Pies belonged to Daddy. Happy Pies, Sad Pies, sometimes Drunk Pies. It all depended on his state of mind (and body as in the case of the Drunk Pies).  He scavenged the ingredients; strawberries and rhubarb in the spring, apples in the fall, blueberries at the dawn of summer, a stray pumpkin occasionally. But the showcase of his pies was the Elderberry. Those took planning and cunning and stealth. You can't buy elderberries at the market. Oh, no... maybe rarely today but never some 50 years ago.  Elderberries only grew wild then, not cultivated. Elderberries had to be hunted. Elderberries are wiley and clever, hiding in the most difficult areas to reach. And almost impossible to spot.

The expeditions began in the Spring. Out he would send his trusty scouts... find the blooms!!!! Slow drives in the countryside overtly labeled "The Sunday Drive" were actually covert expeditions to find that rare and coveted delight. He would carefully note the location in his mind, never on paper, and return to track the bushes progress through out the growing season. 

It was an obsession with him. He would change routes and times. He was convinced that he was being tracked and watched. Spies were everywhere. The standing location of any large concentration of bushes was closely guarded. Papa was known to pull to the side of the interstate to climb the hillside and harvest his treasure.

Timing was tricky and of the utmost importance! You had to "know" when to pick; too soon and the berries wouldn't be optimally ripe. Too late and the birds and any other deadbeat locals that may have thought they had successfully staked an exclusive claim to our bushes would make off with the prize... delicate umbrella shaped fans of dark purple/black beebie sized berries. One morning we would wake up to porch full bushels brimming with clusters elderberries waiting to be gently popped off of their umbrellas and into bowls, pots and any other sundry item capable of holding the tiny berries. It requires a whole lot of berries to make one little pie. Did I mention that these berries stain your fingers like no other. Mom made us shuck them barefooted (no we didn't use our toes, lol) because she could never get the stains out of our socks and shoes, well shoes, would track them throughout the house. Those little stinkers could travel; miss the bowl and away they bounced. Such a bountiful mess : )  Notice I didn't mention, purple lips or tongues. We absolutely NEVER ate raw elderberries. In fact, we young-in's wondered how it was the ground was not littered with little bird carcasses ringed around those bushes each spring. A raw elderberry is the most bitter beyond sour berry in all of God's creation. We, Sister Two and I, used to laugh till we cried whenever the newest addition to our shucking crew would make the mistake of sampling the booty.

Then Papa would process those berries and transform them into pie filling frozen until the pie mood struck him, or Thanksgiving arrived. You may have looked forward to your Pumpkin Pie... WE had our Elderberry Pie. Each pie was accompanied by the long story of how much time, and work, and planning went into the making of that pie. Every Pie. Every Time. A not so subtle dig at those who had failed to capture the elusive treasure of the wild Elderberry. 

There is only one frozen brick of filling left.

There will be no more.

Papa passed this week, and even though they say you can't take it with you, he did. The secret of the Elderberries is his alone. Perhaps his spirit will guide me as I stalk the elusive bush this Spring. Maybe not.

Still I will have my memories of purple fingers and toes and the smile of a man well pleased.

As some of you know, I go on and on about trimming Robbie's tree.

It's a beautiful dwarf crabapple (not that Rob was crabbie in any sense) You'll also remember that some years back, when the tree was only a few years old, a series of winter storms caused damage to this tree. The damage was hidden until the spring thaw. The weight of the snow, nearly as deep as the tree was tall, left a very obvious gap where a young vibrant branch had been torn from the trunk. Thus it became Robbie's tree, in memory of the way Robbie has been torn from our lives.

Yesterday, I received the news that my Dad had passed away in Florida. He chose to go home, quietly, in his sleep at just about the same time as my Mom did twelve and a quarter years ago today... exactly... on my dear brother, his only son's birthday. Bro spent the entire evening sitting, just sitting in his truck. 

I'm still numb.

Today begins the process of bringing Dad home. He will be placed "in the wall" with Mom at the Gerald B.H. Solomon Saratoga National Cemetary. It's a national veteran's military cemetery  We will watch with sadness and pride as the Military Honor Guard fires a 21 gun salute and Taps is blown for the last time.

And in the Spring...

I'll plant a new tree

I'm really getting so tired of living in perpetual stress.

I guess it's better than living alone, but I want to be able to breathe freely again. I want to stop "thinking ahead" about every move, meal, event; you name it. I want to have spontaneity in my life again. I want to focus on other aspects of life. This whole situation has overtaken everything. 

Everything requires some level of pre-planning. And respect for limitations, an endless ever growing list of limitations. People remind me that I'm not sick, my H is!! And that is true on the surface. But as anyone who has ever walked this path knows, it's not that simple. My Honey wants to be strong for me but that facade of strength brings no comfort, only a sense of separation. He doesn't want me to worry, so he doesn't talk about his feelings or fears. He thinks he's helping me. He's not. He's simply shutting me out.

We've been here before... We will survive this bump in the road.

Again.