Thanksgiving thoughts: Of smoke detectors and loving memories

You can call me a lot of things. One of them would not be “handy man.” For whatever reason, I did not take that carpentry gene from my father, who worked with wood and built things and fixed things throughout my entire youth. Me? I can replace a burnt out light bulb with one that works. Most of the time. Beyond that … all bets are off. So a few weeks ago, while most men would have sniffed at a simple task, one that could be accomplished in minutes without a thought, I was stressing out. It had to be done, and there was extreme deadline pressure! I’ll explain.

As many of you know, Heidi’s beloved mother, my beloved mother-in-law, passed away suddenly and way too soon about a year and a half ago. The void in our lives is still palpable, every day to be sure, but especially during this and every holiday season. One of the ongoing tasks we have been dealing with was trying to sell the house, the loving home where Heidi and her brother grew up with their parents. These are never easy things to deal with, and the hiccups in the process have been plentiful. It gets compounded when lawyers and real estate agents get involved, and the bickering over seemingly trivial things can border on the comical. So it was a few weeks ago. On the day before the scheduled closing, there was a bit of a dispute over whether there should have been smoke and carbon monoxide detectors in the house before closing, or if there would be a $100 off the sale price for the new owners to take care of it themselves. Lawyers were putting their foot down; no closing until the detectors are in place. But, wasn’t that $100 rebate thing already in the closing contract? This is the equivalent of huffing and puffing over … well, nothing. For those keeping score at home, this dispute represented a fraction of the sale that amounted to this: 0.00054 percent. Again. Virtually nothing. But, lawyers being lawyers, this was the deal. Put those detectors in. Or else. Cue the Soup Nazi voice: No closing for you!

So here it is, a Wednesday afternoon, and Idiot Coach needs to get two smoke/CO detectors from Home Depot and install them in the house before the Thursday morning closing. Piece of cake. Right? Right. OK. Bought two Kidde detectors at the cost of $84 and change. Now … to install them … uh-oh. Handy man? Yeah, right! Reading the instructions, it says that you mark two holes with a pencil, drill the holes, insert the screws to mount the bracket plate, and snap/install the detector on said plastic plate. No problem. Wait. Where’s our drill? Yes. We have a drill. No. I do not remember the last time we used it. I could not find the drill. Darkness is descending. I gotta get these things mounted. Drill be damned, I’m going over there. What’s it like trying to screw these tiny screws into the wall without a drill? Funny! After a few drops and misses, the screws went in. The plastic was on the wall. Securely? Not so much. The detectors mounted. Walking gingerly, gently, slowly, trying not to breathe, I leave the house – hoping those suckers stay on the wall for at least the next 24 hours.

Feeling pretty good about myself – check it out … I’m a regular Bob Vila! – I get in my car and listen to Mike Francesa. Then, the cell phone rings. It’s Heidi. She’s assuming I’m still fumbling with the Phillips head screwdriver. Trying not to be smug, I turn down the radio and announce I’m done. Wait! You have to go back, she says! Pictures of those devices, mounted, need to be taken as proof! Swell. My darn FLIP PHONE will have to do. I go back to the house, realizing that I left the front door wide open (Idiot Coach, indeed!). To my mild surprise, the detectors are still on their respective walls. I snap “pictures” with my “phone” and text them off. I lock the front door this time and leave.

And then it dawns on me – it hadn’t dawned on me a few minutes earlier, when I went to leave the first time – that this was it. This was the last time I’d be in this house. I did not grow up in this house. I did not have a bedroom in this house. My parents did not live there. But there sure were a lot of loving memories here.

--Thanksgiving 1992, just a few weeks after I started dating Heidi. I was nervous at first but felt right at home soon after.

--Many other Thanksgivings, and many other meals, after that.

--Falling asleep in that big comfy oversized chair in the basement, with a football game that I had no interest in acting as background noise.

--Christmases.

--Birthdays.

--Bonfires.

On and on and on.

As we prepare for Thanksgiving 2013, here at our home, we do so with our mother’s memory still alive and well. There was nothing like a “Grandma Mimi dinner” or a “Grandma Mimi Thanksgiving.” Oh yeah, we still miss her all right, every single blessed day.

Most of you reading this have dealt with similar losses throughout the course of your family lives – some of you quite recently, with the feelings still acute. The holidays can be tough times as the memories become more vivid and flood back in a rush. The sadness, and the longing, is real. But to paraphrase “Tuesdays with Morrie,” the wonderful book by Mitch Albom: “Love never dies.” So as we prepare for Thanksgiving and other holidays, we keep the memories alive by honoring the loving life that she, and all of our loved ones not with us anymore, lived. Love never dies. That is something to be thankful about, today and every day.