Damned Dandelions...

If you know me, you know that dandelions are one of my bestest flowers and daisies are second -- with maybe blue morning glories as a close third.

But...

The day before my lovely brother died, I saw my first dandelions here in western Greenbrier county. And when I saw these dandelions, I told my honey -- it's time to make that dandelion wine for Deb (Delbert).

And then he up and died -- I never had anyone take such drastic measures to keep from drinking my wine.

I have, of course, been on an emotional roller coaster since I heard the news. No. Way before I heard the news. My family on the other side of the veil have been coming along in dreams, and I guess, preparing me for what was coming. They didn't come out and say it though. Or if they did, they put a blind on so I didn't remember come morning. I only remembered they were there, in my dreams. I expect he will come, too. But they don't always. Sometimes they move on fast.

You can tell when they are hanging around. Sometimes, you get heavy and tearful. Or sometimes, you get full of memories.

The tears for Deb are not the same as the tears for Joy were last year. That was devestating. This is ... somehow... a rejoicing. Delbert has made the quantum leap (as my friend, Irving V. puts it). Joy checked out on purpose. I guess that was in her story, but it didn't feel that way. It still doesn't. It's more like the book slammed shut about two thirds of the way through. There was an off-note. And the depression she lived with hung around looking for another victim for a long time.

It's not that way with Deb. We miss him. And all of us have a regret or six. "Wish I'd called him more." "I was going to go see him..." "Wish I'd sent him some ramps --he couldn't get out to get them -- he loved ramps..." "I hope he knew the way I meant what I said that time..." And my own lament, "I meant to make you that wine..."

But underneath all that, there's a kind of rejoicing that we got to know him and that he hung around with us this long. Instead of "how are we going to make it without him?" it's "How would we ever had made it without having known him."
He was on my mind constantly over the last couple of weeks. I guess my spirit kin did tell me what was going to come about. But they didn't want me spilling the beans and upsetting everyone when, really, there was no changing anything.

Two years ago, Deb came to visit and he drank some of my dandelion wine. "Oh, you have talents I didn't know you had." is what he said. And he wanted some of that wine. Well, I gave him most of what I had and fully intended to make more the next year. Which was last year. But it didn't happen. I worked on the homeplace last year, totally absorbed in that project, pretty much to the exclusion of everything else. I didn't even raise a garden!

So, I gave Deb what I had left of the previous year's wine and I bought some bottles and got ready, waiting for the dandelions.

Well, this would have been the week for making the wine. Then, it would need to age, the longer the better, but don't even think of tasting it for at least six months -- and a year is better. I make it for Winter Solstice -- what better than the essences of little golden suns all bottled into wine to make the toast for the new sun on Solstice morning.

But now...

I look out there and see all those dandelions and I think of Deb and the wine. My neice, Rose, told me, "Make that wine! We'll drink it in his honor." And I guess that's what I need to do.

And play those songs that I won't get to play for him. He's the fellow who bought me my first guitar and someway or another I still owe him a song.

The evening of the first day when we no longer had Delbert on this side with us, an e-mail came from a natural skills place I occasionally follow. It was on making a bow. Delbert loved the bow and arrows. I'm thinking I might make one. In fact, I'm thinking I'll do a lot of things that Deb would do if he was still around.

But I can't help wondering what he's doing right now.

He was a man who gave gifts. It was what he loved to do. My morning reading on Friday, April 8th, (the day Deb died), said: "Everything in your life is a gift. Everything. Remember this today." Later, I heard the news. It was grieving and sad and I hate this thing called missing. But somehow, I knew Deb would give us a gift in this as he did in everything. And not only to us -- this very day, someone has been gifted with the donor's gift of restored sight from a retina transplant, thanks to Deb.

Our gift was, of course, knowing him. What an amazing gift that we were allowed that honor.

Good journey, my brother! As you always said when you ended your phone calls, "Don't forget who loves you."