His Favorite Holiday of the Year

New Years Eve is always tinged with nostalgia and a bit of sadness along with the anticipation of the new year, because it was Leif's favorite holiday. I don't know why, whether it was because of the party atmosphere so unlike other holidays, or the fireworks, which he loved, or something else. He wanted to be celebrating with friends or in a crowd, and most of all, wanted someday to be in Times Square in NYC to watch the ball drop. He never made it. This is our eighth New Years without him.

Our family didn't have any special New Year's traditions, and usually didn't take pictures then. We did stay up to see the new year come in, but that was about it. The most memorable New Years Eve we ever had was when we were living in Sachsen bei Ansbach, Germany, up on the hill where we could look all over the valley and see seven villages. That particular night, there was new fallen snow and a full moon, so everything shown in a soft light. We were watching this from our upstairs veranda, when the fireworks started. We saw the fireworks from all seven villages. How I wish we'd had the video cameras we have today. We don't even have any photos of this magical event. Leif loved it. He was only four or five years old. Perhaps that's what got him started loving New Years.

This photo was taken in January 1977. I no longer remember whether it shows him working with a puzzle he got for Christmas, or whether it was later in the month and was a birthday present. He would have been two years old that January. Bright little fellow that he was, he was already working puzzles. This one was of Oscar the Grouch. It was taken in Charlottesville, Virginia.

"Think of Me"

I tried to post on New Years Eve from my iPad but somehow, the Blogger app would not upload the post. I wanted to post something on Leif's favorite holiday. We were together with his brother, niece, nephew and sister-in-law, and it would have been so good to have him with us, too.

We came back to Florida and I was busy with my mother's medical needs after a fall, busy enough that I didn't get to try the post again for over a week . . . and then it happened.

I went to chorus rehearsal and we got our new music for the spring concert. I was delighted to see that it was all wonderful songs from Broadway musicals.

Then the director told us to take out "Think of Me" from "Phantom." I got choked up immediately. I love that song, but we had it played at Leif's memorial service, and the words will always make me think of him and how much I miss him. I attempted to sing it, but I couldn't get more than a few notes out. I finally just had to put the music in my lap and sit there dabbing at tears while my friend Chris hugged me. I simply couldn't sing.

We went on to other songs and returned to "Think of Me" at the end of rehearsal. By that time I had pulled myself together enough to sing it.

This is such a good example of how we never know how something is going to affect us, or when grief will come unexpectedly flooding back. Most of the time I can talk about Leif without crying, but I can never predict when something will trigger sadness and tears.

It's hard to realize that his birthday is coming up and he won't be here, hard to realize in April he will have been gone from us for six years. I'm still using his computers. His wallet is still here, untouched except for his military ID that I turned in. My mind knows he's gone forever. My heart will never let go.
--------------------------------
This photo was a selfie Leif took on New Years Eve 2002.

A Christmas "Visit"

I'm sitting here listening to Vangelis, a composer Leif loved, beginning with the end titles from Blade Runner, one of his favorite movies, and thinking of him. It's hard to believe I haven't posted on this blog since December 16th. Each of the days since then we have thought of him, talked of him, missed him, remembered good times with him. We were blessed with family around us, Peter Anthony, our granddaughters, my mother, friends, who kept us busy, happy except for moments when a longing broke through, kept us focused on life and the present so much better than we would have been if we had been alone. 

Even this fourth Christmas without Leif doesn't feel right, though. He should have been with us, enjoying all the fun, the foods he loved. He would have participated in the lively political and historical discussions with fervor, laughed at the Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert shows, talked about all the latest technology, and eaten too much potato lefse and Berliner Kranse. He would have loved the movies, played the games.

He could not be with us, but we went to the cemetery, which was decked out in wreaths and flowers, on December 28. It's a beautiful place, but a place full of both peace and sadness.

I cried, as I always do, and was glad for the long, tight hugs from Peter and Peter Anthony, so thankful they were with me. It still hurts to look at that marble slab with his name on it and know that all that's left of his earthly remains are behind it, yet I want to go there, to acknowledge him in that small symbolic way.

On New Years Eve, I watched the ball drop in Times Square and looked up at the stars in the night sky and thought of him.

I thought again how passionate he would be about the political campaign, wondered as I always do what we might have done to keep him with us.

But this year, more than the past, I was able to embrace the good memories and cherish them without always dissolving into sadness . . . though missing him will always be there. I missed buying him gifts, too. I thought about it when I was wrapping all the others. It still doesn't seem right not to have them for him.

It will be like that when his birthday comes at the end of this month, too.

Another New Years Eve Without Leif

Leif loved parties and New Years Eve celebrations. This is our third New Years Eve since he died, and the holidays have brought so many memories of him. I miss him terribly.

To compound the feeling, I received a junk email from "him" at two of my email addresses. No message, just a junk link to a website that would undoubtedly have infected my account. And odder still, the message came from an email address of his that I had closed (or at least went through the process to close) over two years ago. I could see that the message also went to others in his contact list, and they probably found it startling to see an email from him.

I found that both his Hotmail accounts were still open. despite the fact that Microsoft says they will disable the account if a person doesn't log in for 270 days, and despite the fact that I had gone through a process to close them. I tried again and had difficulties. I hope I succeeded in getting the two accounts closed this time. I don't want them sending out junk that will be passed on by others when they click a link to see what it is, nor do I want people getting a shock when they see email from "Leif Garretson."

Yet even now, closing an account of his still feels like I am doing something I shouldn't, taking away something that was his, taking away yet another little piece of the identity he crafted, as though there is less of him left in this world. I know that's silly, and I know I have to do it, but the feeling is still there.

The "brave new world" we live in creates situations that would never have happened years ago, before the internet, before email, before social media. I doubt that Leif ever considered what would happen to all his accounts when he died, or whether anyone would have to deal with them.

Mail still comes for him, too, from mailing lists he was on, from Mazda, for instance, and Geico. I wonder how many years past his death we will still find envelopes in the mail addressed to him at our address, since he once lived here.

Other things linger on. I received two phone calls concerning an old account of his in the past two days. When are things really settled? When will I finally have taken care of all his belongings?

I go to the garage and see his bicycle hanging up. I go to my office and remember that once it was his. I enter the guest room and remember that once he slept there.

I think of New Years and know I won't see him or get a "Happy New Year, Mom" text from him on my phone. Now there are no new years for him.

Music still makes me think of him and cry.

Most days I'm all right. Most days I am finding more ambition and motivation than I've had since he died. Most days I am happy, or at least not unhappy. Sometimes I find joy, with my grandchildren, with Peter W.

And some days, some times, I am sad and miss Leif so.

-------------

This is a photo I found on an old cell phone Leif had. I don't know where it was taken but it looks like a restaurant. It was taken on September 16, 2006.

Our Second New Year's Day Without Leif

Today we began a new year, the second one we have begun without our son, Leif. Peter tells me that he hopes the day will come when I will remember Leif only with joy at the years and experiences we shared and not with the sadness and grief that he is no longer with us. I would like that to happen, but I don't know how it will ever be only joy when I remember Leif because I will always miss him and always be sad for the way he died. It's hard to think that all the rest of my life, he will never be there. Even so, this New Years is easier than last year, and I am a happier person than I was a year ago. Not the same person, for dealing with Leif's death has changed me, but even though I still have the sadness beneath the surface (and occasionally on the surface), I do detect changes for the better in me . . . and in Peter, too.

2010 is the new "baby year" so I chose a picture of Leif with me when he was still a baby, my beautiful baby boy. This photo was taken of us in July 1976 when he was 18 months old, in our old stone house in Manhattan, Kansas. We were happy.

Last night we watched the ball drop in Times Square and I remembered that of all the holidays around the year for some reason Leif seemed to like New Years the best. Maybe it was because of the sense of new beginnings. I remembered that he always wanted to spend a New Years Eve in Times Square, in New York, with someone he loved, and I'm sad that he never got to do that.

We toasted the New Year without him. I hope 2010 holds good things for our family, our country and our world. If only Leif were here to share it.

Leif on New Years Day in 2007 and 2008, his last New Year

We rarely spent New Years Eve with Leif once he was grown. He usually spent it with friends or his current romantic interest, except for the year he was in Bosnia. But on New Years Day, he often was with us for dinner and the evening. We will miss him this year.

The past two years, his brother, Peter Anthony, was here with his family, and Leif had a lot of fun with his nieces, Madeleine and Aly, who took to Leif from the beginning. He played chess with Madeleine, gave Aly rides and held her upside-down by one foot, played silly games with them and made videos of them cutting up on his cell phone. I found they were still on the phone after he died. In the last few years of his life, I rarely saw him as happy as he was then.

The last day we were all together, on January 7th just after midnight, I insisted that Darlene take a photo of Peter W. and I with our two sons. It's the last photo we have of the four of us together. Leif looks happy and amused. You never know when a photo you take of someone you love will be the last, or when you've said your last goodbye. We did see Leif three more times after this, on his birthday, out to dinner in February, and for Easter dinner at our house. Only three. At least each time was a good time, and we hugged each other and told him we loved him . . . and he said, "love you, too."

Last Day of the the Last Year of Leif's Life

I didn't post anything yesterday. I couldn't decide how to handle it. I was in the middle of a series of winter snow pictures, but it was a sad day yesterday and I didn't feel like just posting more of them. I also wasn't ready to write about feelings, partly because I didn't know what I really wanted to say, partly because I hesitate to talk about grief again after three weeks, and partly because Peter W. thinks I'm fragile and can't handle it, though I think what I feel is normal and I'm doing well, at least as well as can be expected.

We had just dropped off our Peter Anthony's family at the airport and were alone again for the first time since December 21st. It was so good to have them here. Being busy with a full house and three grandchildren kept us so occupied there was no time to be feel sadness for long. I had some teary times, but I managed to keep them to myself. The kids were wonderful, and they made Christmas a happy time, certainly far, far happier than it would have been if it were just us here remembering the many Christmases when our family was complete.

But once they left, and the house was quiet, just the two of us, the pent up emotions that I had kept at bay came back and I felt very sad that Leif had not been with us, and would not be with us for the holidays ever again, sad that he won't be here to ring in the New Year, sad that there will be no new years for him.

I miss him so! Everywhere I look are reminders of him, things that were his, things he helped us with, things he gave us, photos. I look at them and know there were happy times in his life, at least when he was younger. Where did it all go so wrong? I'm glad I had him 33 years. It was not enough.

Tonight I will go to a New Years Eve party. I will dance, and I will celebrate. I will have a good time, but underneath it, I will be sad and fighting tears. Life will be like that for a long, long time.

Now I close the year of 2008, the saddest year of my life, the last year Leif was alive, and I will try to welcome in the New Year, the first one since 1975 in which Leif will not live, and try to find my way.