A phoenix rising from the ashes

Private road through the woods

This is the private road through the woods to our riverfront property. We ran across this obstacle on our journey.

My aunt and I made the trek to Robe Valley where our family has owned property along the Stillaguamish River since the crash of ’29. Our mission was to spread my mother’s ashes in a place of beauty that she loved.

At dinner the night before at my brother’s home, we celebrated mom’s life. I was surrounded with love from my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew, spouses and children and of course aunt.

I worried about the condition of the road to the river. Would it be too muddy? Would it be flooded? We were told we’d need a chainsaw this time of year to make it to the river.

“We don’t do chainsaws,” I said.

My aunt who turns 80 this year, nodded her head in agreement.

gate to private road
A new gate to our property.

Our first obstacle was a new gate. Prior to this gate, we had a chain across our road. Fortunately, I packed the key that was mailed to me by a distant relative a few months ago. Whew! It worked!

When we stopped at the fallen branches blocking the road, I was able to push and hold them back while my aunt gunned the accelerator and drove through.

Then something surprising happened. A Great Blue Heron (not a Phoenix) rose from a low branch and flew up in front of us. The Great Blue Heron was my mom’s favorite bird. In the 80-plus years this property has been in the family, no one has seen one.

My aunt said “Mary is that you?” (Mary is my mother’s name.)

The heron kept flight directly in front of our car as we made our way down the road. Literally we were looking up and forward.

I’m reminded of Victoria’s post yesterday at Victoria Ponders with these words from her dear friend:

Look Up.  Look Forward.

https://victoriaponders.com/

It was a sight or a sign. It was other worldly. I didn’t get a photo or video, but the four-foot tall bird guiding us down the road is etched in my mind.

We reached the river without further obstacles, prayed and spread my mom’s ashes along with blue hydrangea blossoms (blue was my mother’s favorite color and she loved hydrangeas.)

We left in peace knowing Mom was put to rest in one of the most beautiful places that she loved.

river view
Where we spread ashes with snow on the riverbanks and snow capped mountains in the distance.
Stilaguamish River in Washington state.
View across the river from our property.

Mung day

A gray day in Arizona.

As I was thinking about my trip to Washington to celebrate my mom’s life, on Saturday my husband and I had a day where we didn’t want to do anything. I remembered my mom had days like that where she let us stay in our pajamas all day. She called them “mung days.”

I don’t know where she got that name for being lazy. I looked up “mung” at Dictionary.com:

noun

something disgusting or offensive, especially filth or muck.

verb (used with object)

to make dirty (often followed by up).

to spoil, ruin, or destroy (often followed by up).

https://www.dictionary.com/browse/mung

Maybe staying in your PJs all day doing nothing is filthy and disgusting?

I don’t remember the last time my husband and I had a “mung” day. He had a migraine Saturday. I was tired. We had a busy week and we went out with friends Friday night. On Saturday, I did my stretches, crunches, walk, dishes and laundry. Not a total waste of a day. I got out of my pajamas.

My mom on the other hand, had many a “mung” day. As I look back on my childhood, I remember full weeks when she didn’t get out of bed. Yes, she was a wonderful, loving mother. She was the mother I wrote about in the story I posted HERE who was talented and vibrant.

She was diagnosed as manic depressive, which is now called called bipolar. It wasn’t the easiest of childhoods for either my brother or me — because of both Mom and Dad. I’m pretty sure my kids would say the same thing about their childhoods, too.

I found this sign years ago in a gift shop and was immediately attracted to it. People laugh when they see it. I laugh too, but have memories that aren’t that funny.

I wrote a mid-grade novel loosely based on my childhood. I let several of my friends read it. One friend said, “I just want to give you a hug and raise you up all over again.”

I realized I didn’t want to have it published because it would be hurtful to Mom and Dad. So, the manuscript filled with emotions from my childhood sits quietly in a drawer. I may take a look at it again, maybe submit to publishers. Or maybe read it to recall my childhood days.

If you don’t have “mung” days, what do you do instead when you feel like not doing anything?