Limequats in Pots - Growing Small Citrus Trees in Cooler Climates

As you might know, I am a Florida girl. I haven't lived there for many years, but I still think of myself as that barefoot little girl in short-shorts and rib-tickler, dodging sandspurs in the field below our house. The scent of orange blossoms filled my summer days, and will always bring me back to memories of childhood.

I've been dreaming of orange blossoms lately. That's why my husband came home from the store with a small citrus tree in early June, when they were being sold at Home Depot and Lowe's Home Improvement stores.


This is a very small Limequat tree, fresh from the store this year.
Though it is small, there are at least two dozen fruits clinging to those branches.
The blooms are white, by the way. Those pink blooms are just
a neighboring geranium, checking out the activity.

It was one of the last citrus trees left, and is called a Eustis Limequat. I had never heard of it before. But one small fruit hung from the tip of a single branch, smaller than a Key Lime, and the bright green color of a regular grocery store lime. Seven blossoms clung to the branches, as yet unopened. I waited for several days, and when they did open, the blossoms dropped immediately, much to my disappointment. However, it was a new plant in a new home, and I had anticipated that possibility.

Well, almost immediately, my little Limequat started budding again. I waited patiently, and when these buds opened, I took one of my small artist paint brushes and as soon as each began to open, I gently tickled each blossom in the middle to pollinate. (I could have used a q-tip, too.) It takes at least two blossoms to pollinate, and I had dozens. I was hoping to get at least enough fruits so I could make a pie this winter.

On the left is the Limequat that was on the tree when Bill brought it home to me.
On the right are some of the small fruits; the result of my pollination using the artist paint brush.

A week or two later, I examined my little tree, and found that almost every bloom had dropped off; this time leaving a tiny speck of fruit growing there. I counted them. Fourty-four baby Limequats in all. Wow.

Along with the oranges, grapefruits and guavas, we had a Kumquat tree in my yard when I was a kid. It was more of a large bush, I suppose, and it was always full of Kumquats, which are a small orange colored, oval shaped fruit, about 1 1/2" long. My sister Nancy and I would pick them as a snack, eating the delicious, sweet orange flavored skins, but usually discarding the mouth-puckeringly sour, seedy fruits. They aren't sour like a lemon is sour, but like those candies that my kids used to buy that make the glands under the tongue seize up and shudder in shock.

Some things to note if you are looking for information about Limequats:
1. Limequats are more cold tolerant than Key Limes. So if you want to plant yours outside (in a warm region), you can plant it a little further north than you could the Key Lime. I had a Key Lime that survived outside, in a pot for two winters in Hickory, North Carolina, under a deck, in a warmer part of the yard. It didn't survive the third winter, when it had been moved out from under the protection of the deck into the open yard. I'll bring my Limequat in when I bring in my Orchids, at about 40 degrees, though it should survive in a little cooler temperatures.
2. According to the grower, Limequats grow better in smaller pots other than large. When I read this, I decided not to repot this plant when I got it. As it grows, I will gradually move it to a bigger pot. But I want to keep the pot small enough that I can still move it in and out on my own.
3. During growing season, Bill and I fertilize all our plants about every six weeks or so with fish emulsion, an organic fertilizer that stinks to high heaven, but is good for the plants and doesn't contaminate fruits or herbs. (Go by the directions on the bottle. Some plants, such as orchids, need a weaker solution.) So we included our new Limequat in the routine. I have learned that Limequats should be fertilized in the spring, and again in August. We have already fertilized ours with fish emulsion twice. It didn't hurt it, though the first time, it dropped the blooms early, so I won't fertilize it again until next spring.
4. The fruit is ripe when it starts turning yellow, like a Key Lime. This takes a long time. If you are impatient...well...you're going to have to learn to be patient. You can consider waiting for citrus fruit to mature as being Patience 101.
5. Basic information (from Duarte, a seller, below):
Zone: 8-9
Mature height: 4-8 feet
Blooms: late Spring to early fall
Fruit ripens from November 1st to the middle of March
Self-pollinating.

*Later: Alas, I was just inspecting my little Limequat, and it doesn't look like all fourty-four fruits have survived, but there are still at least a couple of dozen there. Still enough to make a fine Key Lime pie. The one mature fruit hanging on is beginning to yellow slightly on its belly. I am expecting it to ripen up within a month or so, and then I will be able to taste it and see if it's more Lime or more Kumquat.

*Much Later: When mature, the limequats turn yellow. The skin is not as tasty as a Kumquat, but the fruit isn't as sour, either.

Limequats can be made into Bonsai trees, or you can buy them already as Bonsai. I want my little tree for the fruit this time, but may want to try one as a Bonsai next year. Or I may decide to grow one from seed, specifically to Bonsai.
Below are some sites you may find helpful or interesting. The first is "Making Your Own Bonsai" from this blog. But others are for more information or to purchase Limequats:

http://recklesslydancingwhilesupperburns.blogspot.com/2011/06/making-your-own-bonsaiin-picturesits.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limequat
http://lemoncitrustree.com/limequat.html
http://lemoncitrustree.com/care_instructions.html
http://fauntleroyband.tripod.com/bonsaitreesbonsaisnurseriesplantshouseplantsbonsaigardensnurseryplantbonsaitreegardening/id89.htmlhttp://meyerlemontree.com/limequatorder.html
http://duartefruittrees.com/?page_id=63

The First Day of Motherhood

August 14, 2012 - Fourty-three years ago, my unborn child was in the head down position with feet planted firmly beneath my ribs. I'd been watching those tiny feet travel across my belly for two months or so, and by now my ribs ached mightily. I confess, I was a good bit fearful, not knowing what to expect from childbirth or motherhood. But I was mostly excited to get that baby out of me, hold it in my arms and watch it's life unfold like a flower before my eyes. I had begun to have cramps, and we knew it wouldn't be long before I would meet this little person for the very first time.

This is Kathleene. My little girl.

August 15, 2012 - After 23 hours of labor, the baby was born. Doctor Webb, my best friend's father, delivered her. He was excited. His eyes sparkled as he held her up, naked and freshy, her face squeezed tightly between his fingers. Yes, it was a little girl. Still groggy from the anesthesia, I opened my eyes to see that tiny red face in Doctor Webb's hands, mouth wide open, screaming with anger over being taken from her warm, comfy hiding place. The hospital lighting glowed all about her like a halo, making her look angelic in spite of the screaming.

I would tell you I fell in love with her right then and there, but I was already in love with her from the moment I realized she was inside of me. This very day, fourty-three years ago, was the beginning of a lifetime of adventure for both of us; it was my first day of Motherhood.

Happy Birthday, my darling Kathleene. You are a treasure and a joy!

Mama

How to Ease Your Depression in Three Easy-to-Remember Steps...Or is it Two...

At times in life, many of us struggle with depression. It's a cruel condition which arises, at least for me, in part from a lack of effective coping skills. *It can be difficult to overcome, but together, you and I should be able to do so with some practice.

I saw this great article Friday, about how to rid yourself of depression in three easy steps. It might have been four easy steps, but I only recall three...unless the last two were actually one which I separated into two, which in that case, means, here below are two of three, or three of four easy-to-remember steps.

Anyway, they have been so helpful the last few days; I thought I should pass these precious jewels on to my readers, family and friends:

Now. I shall assist you in ridding yourself of that pesky condition which we call Depression. Here goes:

1. Count your blessings. When you awake, think of at least a half a dozen things to be grateful for. There are so many things to be thankful for here in the US. Running water, fresh air, trees. Family, friends, transportation. I can honestly think right off the bat of 50 things, and more if I try harder. First, I'm thankful for all my family. Of course, there's my hubby. He's family, but I like to count him at least twice. I'm thankful for Geraniums, and even my poor roses with the black spot and the two unidentified viruses. I'm also thankful for my dogs who are an ever present source of delight, and for all sorts of foods, wine and cheese, starting with spaghetti, and Sauvinon Blanc and moving right into Aged New York Cheddar (and I'm thankful that I finally learned to spell Sauvinon Blanc, thanks to my friend on twitter, who I am also grateful for...or was it Sauvignon?) And Aspirin. And I must not forget nasal strips. I love them!
(Excellent start. I'm feeling better already.)

2. Live in this moment. No regrets from yesterday. Don't think about what you said at the funeral last week that made that lady choke on her cracker. She doesn't know you were his niece. Seriously, if you can't change something, it's not worth worrying about. In addition, No worries about tomorrow. Sun spot flares happen all the time, even during earlier years of the Mayan Calendar. And the chance of being hit by a crashing airplane is slimmer than being struck by lightning, even if you are on the airport landing flight path. Don't worry. Tomorrow will come; it always does. Trust me. So live this moment right where you are starting now - Go!...no, wait...wait...go now...!

3. Observe your surroundings. Relax. Look around. Now that you are living Today, take it all in. (...Are those bills paid? Didn't I call that guy?) NO, NO, NO! Hmm. Leave your computer and go outside. Breathe deeply. Listen to the sounds and smell the fresh air - hear the birds chattering, the people talking, the...is that a plane crashing? No it's just the dumpster guy. Sigh. Moving right along, smell the fresh cut grass. Feel it under your bare feet. Sit down over there on that bench and relax. Think about the bench, how it feels under...Ugh...the grass feels...um...what's that?...It's red clay. Good. Back to feeling the bench under yourself; relax and think about how it feels against your back...(my back/head/neck hurts now...I think I've got a splinter...)

Now you have completed your first attempt to rid yourself of depression. I'm sure you feel better already! I know I do...well; you'll get better at it. This method really works... (and if you saw the article I saw, please send me the link in the comment section, so I won't get sued. I'm getting worried again.)

*My best way of coping with things it to joke about them. But all joking aside, depression can be serious, and if these simple steps don't help and you feel you've lost your joy, talk to your doctor. Depression can be caused by many things, including some health issues, past experiences, loss of loved ones or other personal issues, and even some medications. There are many effective solutions; various therapies, as well as medications. No one deserves depression.

Wolves in Middle-Schooler's Clothing

I'm sure most of you have seen this video of  Karen Klein, the bus monitor who was verbally abused by middle school children. They were cruel, vulgar, crude and even used sexually explicit threats. Their behavior was abhorrent and inexcusable. These bullies should be soundly punished.

"Off With Their Heads", said the Queen!

Kick them off the bus, permanently. Give them in-school suspension as well as summer clean up on the grounds and in the school bathrooms. They deserve to lose a substantial amount of their summer freedom, as I believe that is the only thing that will speak to their savage little brains. Because you know, I have a feeling Karen Klein was not the only victim these mean little monsters have collectively abused. Surely she was just the oldest of their prey.

However, I have been reading many of the comments by readers and watchers of this video, and I was struck by how many people choose to go after the parents of the children in an attempt to find someone to cast the blame and the responsibility upon. This is the coming trend, and I am warning you parents. It could happen to you!

It reminded me of a lynchin'. "Kill them parents, and their devil offspring, too!"

What bothers me most about this, is this arrogant superiority with which the blame is cast upon these parents, though few of us know anything about them or saw how they reacted to viewing the video of their children attacking this poor woman.

Admittedly, I have mixed feelings about this. The first time I watched the video, I immediately thought that the parents must be terrible. I wanted to shake them and accuse them, just like everybody else that was writing in. Then I remembered how shocked I have been in the past when one of my own offspring has done something mean or rude that I taught them from birth never to do.

Having a large family, I have been spared the ignorant bliss of thinking that I, Wondermom of the Universe, am the reason my children are wonderful.

I have had compliant children and rebellious kids, too. I know that the way a kid turns out in the end is what really matters, and that along the way, there may be terrible times when nothing but the grace of God Himself can save them. Thanks to that grace, mine have all turned out to be relatively sane and responsible people, as well as good, loving parents in their own right. I did some things right, but the best thing I did was pray hard, love them through the rough times, and never give up.

These kids in the video are, like so many kids that age, thoughtless, selfish and lacking in self control or direction. Except, perhaps, when their parents are around. Be honest now. Middle school kids are some of the cruelest people on the face of the earth, and it's been that way forever. They are no better than a barnyard full of chickens, attacking the old and the weak. In the barnyard, it's called a "pecking order". On the school yard, it's bullying.

Blame their parents,  if you wish.

Demand they be fined at a time when most of us are struggling to make ends meet. "That'll teach 'em!" Missing their mortgage payment will make them better parents. I am quite sure of it. Their kids will say, "Wowzers! I'm sorry Mummy and Daddy are having a hard time on my account." Of course, the parents will be really mad then. Maybe they will even beat those kids (like some of you wisely suggest) when they get them home. Parents who teach their children to publicly abuse old ladies would never beat their children too much. They would beat them just enough...

And while you're at it, humble those terrible parents, too, like they did in the old days. Where are stocks when we need them? Now that's a practice that should be revived for foolish parents of cruel brats and middle schoolers. Their children will be ashamed of themselves when they see their parents publicly humbled for their sakes.

I have no doubt that most of those parents were mortified when they saw that tape. Surely they didn't teach their kids to behave that way. Any experienced parent of a large family will tell you that some kids are naturally sweet, but most have to be taught to care about others. When even the best behaved children are in with a group of peers, they may succumb to the pack mentality, and like a pack of wolves, pick out the weak and tear them apart, and hate themselves for the rest of their lives for it.

So blame these kids for their own bad behavior. Punish them soundly.

But also blame our society, for fear that overrides common sense, which puts kids in schools all day which can neither punish nor comfort the children. And blame society for its disrespect for people who are less than perfect - like Karen Klein, the overweight are a big target right now...no pun intended... and the mentally ill, the poor, the sick, the other race- whichever it is. And the unborn, especially if they are going to be disabled. Don't forget to toake note of what is tolerated in movies and on the internet. Murder, sarcasm, sexual irresponsibility and all sorts of immorality. 

It's all part of the attitude that created these cruel children.

Divided We Fall

Everything is not black and white. I've always believed that the reality of almost any situation will have shades of gray mixed in among the darks and the lights.

I grew up in a small town where the blacks and the whites were kept separate, like laundry on wash day.

The world I grew up in was a safe little world. We left the keys in the car. We did not lock our doors at night.

The first time I became aware of race, I was four years small, and was in the doctor's waiting room with my mom. I liked the colorful children's chairs they had in there, and I was pulling one over to sit near Mama, when I saw an old black man in the room next to me. He smiled and beckoned me to come to him so he could give me a little piece of candy wrapped in paper. He had a sweet smile that old people do when they love children. So I politely rose from my seat, but was immediately stopped by my mother. I couldn't talk to him or take his candy, she told me firmly. He was colored, and little white girls didn't talk to colored men.

The old man's smile turned into sadness, and mine did as well. I'll never forget how that cold rejection from my normally kind mother had hurt that poor man's feelings.

Until that moment, I hadn't noticed that black people were so different from white people. After all, we always had them popping by to do various jobs around our house. My sister and I loved Robert, who worked on the yard with my dad. They had been friends for years. And we had a housekeeper who kind of looked like the mammy from Gone With the Wind. She came several times a week to help Mama. Her name was Ruby, and she cleaned, washed, and changed my baby sister's diaper and rocked her to sleep. Unlike the movie mammy, Ruby was genteel and rather sophisticated. Mom treated Ruby like she treated other friends. They laughed and chatted, sometimes even about politics.

Forward to 1960's.

The '60's were not the peaceful years that the '50's had been. While Martin Luther King attempted to do peaceful demonstrations, the KKK and the Black Panthers were shouting, rioting, burning crosses and churches, and threatening to kill each other and anyone else who got in their way. You couldn't turn on the television without hearing about it. I did not feel safe any more. We started locking the doors at night.

In the late '60's, our high school became fully integrated. The first year they enrolled a black brother and sister, the "cream of the crop", I suppose. But the following year, busing started, and we became an actual integrated school.

Being a completely non-political and self-absorbed teenage girl, I had other things to think about, like boys, friends, clubs, boys and passing Biology. I admit, I wasn't the least concerned about the integration thing. There was one nice black guy in my English class who told a friend that if I was black he would ask me out. I knew I'd have accepted. If I was black.

I do remember one particularly rainy day. I had on moccasins with leather soles which got soggy when wet. I was walking along one of the outdoor walkways, watching for puddles, when I came upon an obstruction in front of me. I looked up, and before me stood a large black girl. Menacingly, she glowered down at me, accusingly. Her rigid arms were held down at her sides, hands curled into tight fists.

I was a skinny little white girl with straight blond hair who didn't want to get her feet wet. I knew that this stranger had deliberately stepped in front of me, in defiance of...well...of my severe and undeniable whiteness, I believe. A condition I was born with and had no power to change, any more than she could change the color of her skin.

What did she want from me? Did she want me to protest? To insult her? To fight? To run in terror down the hall screaming?

I had no beef with that girl. In fact, I didn't even know her. I simply was there and I was white. I said nothing, but moved around her, and went on to class. That was the end of that. My one 1960's confrontational moment.

2012 - Shouldn't it feel different? Better?

Things have come a long way since those days. No longer are we a segregated society here in the US. We now have black congressmen and senators, black doctors, movie stars, talk show hosts, and everything else. We have a black president, for goodness sake! This is a radical change, which those of us who grew up in the '50's could never have imagined would happen so quickly.

So why do I feel unsafe, again? Why do I feel like we are once again becoming a nation of lights and darks, sitting in two separate laundry baskets, waiting to be hung out to dry? In spite of the progress, the '60's have returned to haunt us. Like the young white girl who didn't want to get her shoes wet, I don't understand why people who don't know me stand before me, accusingly, simply because of the color of my fair skin.

If you are a conservative, you're racist.

Politically correct speech has become so dominant that most of us have no idea what is allowed any more. We are afraid to communicate honestly with anyone. Especially if they lean to the left, because we fear inadvertently saying something that will offend. Because no doubt we will, and it will. And we don't want to offend. Mostly, we don't want to be called racist.

This week, everyone is in an uproar about the killing of a 17 year old, unarmed black man by a 28 year old Hispanic man. At first, I was appalled by this seemingly cowardly, unjustifiable act. But the more I learn, I realize that big pieces of this story are missing, and must wait until after the Grand Jury is held. I have a feeling it is far more complex than we have been led to believe.

Until then, I want tell you some things I've observed.

When I first saw this story on the Internet, I noticed that the headline read that a black kid had been killed by a "white Hispanic" man. I thought, what's a "white Hispanic?" I looked at the man's photo and couldn't help but notice that he looks Hispanic, or of mixed race, but not "white". As it turns out, he is of mixed race, but was adopted by his white step father and given his name. Because of his name, they assumed his blood father was white.

I must add that the photo they showed of the black man was from when he was 12 years old. His innocent little baby face peered back at me. I thought a child had been killed.

I don't want to go too deeply into the details, as I think it's been done better by many whose research far exceeds my own. This is what bothers me. The public is being manipulated by this story. Manipulated by a powerful, politically motivated news media, and some especially viral political talkies, Al Sharpton and Spike Lee, among them. The president and his wife have even put in their two cents on the issue.

And the public, like a bunch of fish in a net, are being pulled right into this chaos, threatening, screaming, and spewing their fury without even having access to the complete story.

In this neighborhood a few months ago, a white man was shot in his upper middle class neighborhood, in broad daylight, by a young black man who wanted to rob him. The white man was just walking home from a coffee shop. The black guy was visiting his sister near there, and wanted money for drugs. So he wandered into the neighborhood, armed and looking for someone with cash. He shot the man in cold blood and left him to bleed to death alone in the street.

Our police chief, who happens to be black, made excuses to the press for the young black killer. "He wasn't intending to shoot the guy. It was accidental. He just wanted to rob the man."

What?

We are living in a topsy-turvy world, where saying the "N" word (unless you're black) is worse than calling a conservative political candidate's 17 year old daughter a whore. The killing of a suspicious looking black teen (visiting his aunt in a neighborhood that had had a rash of burglaries), the middle of the night by an assumed "white" man is worse than the killing of a white man walking in his own neighborhood in broad daylight by a black drug addict. It's okay to put a bounty on the head of one shooter, and excuse the other.

We are becoming more divided than ever. Why? Because it is expedient for people in certain political circles to divide the people of America. If they can create riots and diversions along racial lines, then they can divert the public from debating the real issues at hand.  The issues that may actually save this nation and bring our beautiful blend of citizens together again.

This is what we must remember in this time of trumped up turmoil and fear:

Every life is valuable, whether black or white, red or yellow, young or old, rich or poor. 

Every person must be given respect, whether you deem them worthy or not. What you say about them and to them matters.

Implying things that don't exist matters, too. Misrepresenting things is no different than lying. By lying, you lose credibility.

Believing lies and reacting according to things you've heard before they have been substantiated makes you hysterical, hypocritical, fearful, aggressive and a fool. Instead of reacting to someone else's implications and half stories, learn the truth. If you have to wait for it, then hold off stating your opinion.

This is America. A person is innocent until proven guilty. Don't become part of a lynch mob.

Don't allow anyone to distract you from the real issues at hand. Huge matters are at stake here. Don't allow false charges and implications of race to replace the truth or to influence your priorities, clear thinking and logic.

Don't let anyone drag you down to their level, to where you become just another name-caller, cross-burner or rock-thrower.

Remember. We are not a black and white nation. We are a nation of many colors. We must be one nation, United, if we are to survive these times.

 

Saying Goodbye to Mamma

Have I ever told you about when my mamma died? I tweeted it last night, and I feel like I need to write it down to share with others.

I'm going to tweek it just a bit, because tweets are never edited. They're raw.
And short. :)

Mamma died on September 16th, 2001. On September 11, I was waiting on my sister Jeanie. We were going to ride together, home, to be at her side. I was packed and ready to go when I turned on TV and saw the first tower on fire.

Wasn't she gorgeous? This is Mamma when she was in Nurse's Training during WWII.

When Jeanie arrived, she had been listening to the radio, and we were both in tears. It was tragic and frightening. All those people! We decided Jeanie needed to go back to her house for the night to be with her husband. School had been dismissed, and my children were home and needed me, too.

So we delayed the trip for a day, but knew we didn't have long to be with Mamma, so we left the next day. When we arrived, my other two sisters had been there at least a week. They were exhausted from keeping a bedside vigil with Mamma. They talked about what a stinker Mamma was being. She was in pain and the bed was so uncomfortable. My sisters had not managed to sleep in office-style chairs, and had cricks in every bone of their bodies.

I have to tell you again, Mamma was such a stinker sometimes. She was the little girl in that children's poem, "...with a curl in the middle of her forehead". When she was good she was very very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid.  Anyway, Mamma had been a "pill" and so the first night after we arrived, Jeanie stayed with her. All of my dear sisters are a bit protective of me. I'm so frickin' fragile.

All the next day, sister Nancy stood guard beside a comfortable bed with a circulating air mattress that had finally become available. She was determined to aquire it for Mamma, and after practically wrestling it from an orderly, she did. Once settled into the new bed, Mamma was instantly more comfortable. That was the night I stayed with her. Thank God for that bed. Mamma was so much more pleasant to be with.

That night, she was...well, she was Mamma. She was so beautiful, and yet, full of herself at the same time. I had prayed that if God wanted me to talk to her about anything in particular, that it would happen naturally and I would know what to say. So as the night went on, we talked about a lot of things that people need to talk about when they are dying. We talked about the uncle she couldn't forgive. We talked about something so secret she had never told anyone. I'd rather not know, myself. But it doesn't matter. I told her that no matter what, God loves her. All she had to do is ask and he would forgive. I vaguely remember praying, but I'm not sure if we did. Probably.

God is so good.

That night, the nurses asked if I needed a bed-chair, and of course I said yes. So once all the talking was done we both slept soundly, some time after midnight.

The next day Daddy and we kids talked with Mamma's doctors and decided it was time to move her to hospice. Two young, cute orderlies moved her in and out of the ambulance, and she flirted with them shamelessly. She loved men. Especially cute ones.

It was Saturday. Mamma was in so much pain; at the hospital the nurses had been giving her something for pain. Now they couldn't get ahold of her doctor to get the prescription transferred to the hospice until afternoon. After that she relaxed and was able to enjoy all the attention she was getting from her four daughters, one son and especially, her beloved husband of 55 years.

She was so precious that day. I can't tell you.

She kept smiling at the ceiling at the foot of the bed. One of my sisters said, "I think she is confused. She's seeing those huge oxygen tanks and thinks they're angels." But she had such a sweet smile. Like a little child. She'd been asking about the beautiful people for two or three days now, and there were no oxygen tanks in her hospital room.

I was sitting close to her, when she said again, "Who are these beautiful people." Her face was bright and her smile innocent, like she must have looked when she was three years old, and her daddy came home after a hard day's work.

I said, "Mamma, there are oxygen tanks down there. Do you think you might be seeing them?"

Mamma turned her head in my direction and looked at me with a disapproving frown that was o-so-familiar.

"No!" she said firmly. "Those are beautiful people, Deborah. Not oxygen tanks!"

I straightened up immediately. I said, "Well, Mamma, do you think you are seeing angels?" She gave a single nod and her gaze returned to the angels who were patiently waiting for her at the foot of the bed.
I thought, there are angels in this room, and I can't feel their presence at all. It was an amazing realization to me.

Then it occurred to me that among those present at the foot of the bed could be one of my grandparents, or Uncle Carl who had died of an accident when he was just 28 years old. She loved Uncle Carl so.

So I had to ask, "Mamma, do you recognize anyone?" and she nodded once. Still smiling like a little child, she slowly lifted up her frail hand and pointed a finger at the host whom I could not see, but knew were there. "Well," she said. "There's God."

Well, that was quite a surprise to me. Not only a heavenly host, but God himself, was in the room, and we couldn't feel them at all. How do you act when you know God is in the room and Heaven has opened its doors for someone to enter?

For me, I thought this would be a good time to find out what God looks like. I knew I shouldn't ask, but I couldn't help myself. "What does God look like, Mamma?"

Once again, she looked at me with that frown I'd seen so many times growing up. "Well, I can't see his face!" Sort of like, "isn't that obvious to you?".

I had to laugh. I said, "Mamma, that makes sense. The Bible says you can't see the face of God until you die."

Mamma looked back at God, smiling. Satisfied with herself. And with God.

The next morning was Sunday. We got a call from hospice. Mamma was in the final stage, and didn't have long. All five of us were at her side, along with Daddy. We sang hymns and prayed.

Mamma was no longer conscious.  Looking at Daddy, I could see that he was so scared. They'd been married for so long. He didn't know what he should do.

After a little while, Mamma stopped breathing. Daddy panicked, and reached over and tried to wake her. She started breathing again. This happened twice more. Poor, sweet Daddy.

When she quit breathing again, I realized that Daddy just didn't know if it was okay to let her go. I said, "It's okay, Daddy. It's okay to let her go."

He looked at me and said, "It's okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. It's okay."

He sat down, bewildered and relieved, and Mamma went on to be with the angels. And with God.

Daddy lived for several more years, and joined Mamma in heaven with the angels. And with God.

You know, God is good. Life is hard, and it always ends in dying. But you know , with God, life doesn't really end at all. It is just another beginning.