Winter's approaching

Two cords of wood, plus what we'd had left from last year's pile, are neatly stacked and covered with a tarp tonight; leaf dams have been scooped out of gutters; the kitty houses are swept out and piled high with rugs and purr pads to keep them snuggly warm; and we have our first fire in the wood stove tonight.

Whew. Our bodies are telling us that they've been a little abused, too, and that we need to be gentle with underused muscles that are burning with overexertion.

But it's a nice feeling to be prepared for winter. We've got rain forecast for the next several days, and it spat a little on us as we worked outside, but no downpours yet. A satisfying day, actually, to work hard and to see what we've accomplished. That's what I love about any kind of physical labor -- you can see your results immediately. In our normal work, it can be months before you reap any rewards, if then.

Oct. 30 was okay, although by day's end I was ready for it to be done. Staying very busy helped to keep my mind occupied and focused on other things, but when I finally put down the busy-ness in the evening, I felt the strain of the anniversary and the effort I'd expended to make it *just* a day. I heard from only a few friends and family, and that loving reach was greatly appreciated, even if it did make me lower my guard and allow the tears to puddle.

Yesterday, on All Hallow's Eve, I gave thanks to the universe for the gifts my mother and father gave me, and smiled at marigolds still bright and profuse in the nearly-spent garden. They are considered the flower of the dead for the Dia de los Muertos celebration of Mexico, representing the sun's rays and life, and symbolizing that the dead have not lost their place in the universe. (I confess that I plant them to keep the bugs away from the veggies -- an organic approach to gardening -- but I also love their cheery colors.)

Their pictures, along with those of Tony's family, smile at us every day from the top of my grandmother's chest of drawers we use as a buffet in the dining room. It's an altar of sorts, a place to honor them and to remember them daily, and to give thanks for their lives.

Sunday church services closest to Nov. 1, All Saint's Day, always honor the past year's dead members by lighting candles and tolling the bells and saying their names. I won't hear my mother's name read in her hometown church, nor my uncle's remembered in his faraway church. But they are engraved on my heart, along with my father's. I honor them with my words, with my memories, with my gratitude for their lives. Thanks be to God.