Hi there!

Excuse me while I tidy, up a bit. (My mom, to her everlasting glory clung to the curious concept of melding white wall-to-wall carpet 'til the end).

Anyway, a lot has gone in all our lives since that July morning at Saddleback Hospital in 2010. But I've decided to revive the blog and dedicate it to those of us still living, and who have expressed interest in seeing new posts. Honestly, I was too overwhelmed with grief and writer's block to do it.

Anyway, as time passed, we lost my dear Aunt Mary Ann Kaffer.

See obituary at http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/latimes/obituary.aspx?pid=175993372

In 2013, our dear Uncle Bill had already gone to his Heavenly Home, and let me tell you the Catholic Church showed up in droves down in Temecula! (My aunt and uncle weren't stingy in their financial support of the Church!)

The link to his obituary containing his extraordinary life history can be found at http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/latimes/obituary.aspx?pid=164883374

Her son Matthew moved to Washington State. He posts on Facebook sometimes.

 This will conclude my update for now but anyone is able to contact me (Elyse) at epintar56@gmail.com or elyselucilereed@gmail.com (although that is my Facebook related account which I check less often)

Hope all are well!

Elyse

"Don't it always seem t've got 'til it's gone --- Joni Mitchell

Almost a Year

It's been almost a year now, Mom. And really, I can't say it's getting any easier. I look at pictures of you all the time since I scanned so many of them into this computer while the flurry of activity was in full swing in the days and weeks following your death. Betty Ford died today. There was a lot about her that reminds me of you. She was every inch the lady but at the same time, when the white gloves needed to come off, and blunt talk was the order of the day, that's what we got. I love that quality in people. I can still look over to my left and see your sewing machine sitting on the table. I don't want to move it. It feels like the inanimate object that somehow contains the most essence of your soul -- yeah I know that sounds weird.

I guess it's like the Velveteen Rabbit in a way. It spent so much time in the company of the owner that something of the essence of that owner becomes part of it. I remember how much you wanted to get Meghan the book "The Velveteen Rabbit" when she was little (and you did- I see it clearly in my Mind's Eye right now). It was one of those things you seemed to take an almost over-natural interest in . . .although with that book I undersood the reason. The Wind In The Willows and The Yearling not quite so much. I tried, though! I really did! I would never read The Scarlet Pimpernel and thank God that was the book you tended to harp on oops I mean remind Jeff to read all the time. It's Jeff's birthday today. I always remember it, but don't call or send a card or anything. He doesn't call or send me cards on my birthday, either.

I've learned how to manipulate imagery pretty well lately, so ah couuullld make some rilly fancy artistic photographs to put all up in this here blog maybe later.

Should I post silly pictures yet? I don't want to get yelled at again! We'll see.

Did you know . . . . (fun facts about my mom) #2

She was quite proud of two rather strange abilities. The first was (as she would tell anyone who seemed remotely interested) that she could fit her entire fist into her mouth. Remember, in the olden days this would never have prompted even the thought of an off-color remark. Eventually, as children never get tired of seeing their parents look ridiculous, we would say,

"Mom! Put your fist in your mouth!"

"Yeah, Mom! Do it! We wanna see you put your fist in your mouth!!"

It never took too much convincing. I believe the trick was the way she angled her wrist. . . but now I'm wondering how and when she became aware of this awesome talent. And who was the first person she excitedly accosted to witness that in fact, she really could put her entire fist in her mouth?

The second was, she claimed, "I can wiggle my ears." That wasn't nearly as impressive due to the fact that it appeared to me that she could wiggle some area of facial muscles and her ears went along for the ride, but no matter. Perhaps in the first glimmer of adult sensibilities such as tactfulness, I feigned enthusiasm and astonished impressededness.

And now my eyes fill with tears as I my mother at some point in time standing in front of a mirror and perfecting these two silly tricks to elicit the maximum wow factor from her projected audience, and not having the slightest idea that one day it would be her own children who tossed the bouquets.

Some Stuff I Now Have

(to be expanded and expounded upon later, maybe)

1. A purple suede trench-coat.

2. A set of copper Jello molds.

3. A voodoo doll with common old age complaints written all over it like "constipation" over the butt and "Viagra" over the yeah that.

4. A ceramic soap dish of a duck taking a bath that Bill gave my mom for her birthday. She thought it proved once and for all that Bill did not "get" her.

5. A whole bunch of blue towels! (and some white ones)

6. A rust colored blow dryer circa 1972 that weighs 5 pounds.

7. A zipper cosmetic bag filled with my mom's makeup. For some reason this makes me want to sob uncontrollably more than anything else yet has.

8. A glass thermometer in it's original pink and blue 1960 looking box.

9. A Christmas box containing the prom dress my mom is wearing in the picture displayed at her Memorial Mass. I did not know she kept it, and one glance at the cream colored satin is going to cause a meltdown any second now so I better stop here for a little.

I Miss My Mom

I miss my mom. And that's about all I have to say about that. I keep the flame alive that somehow if I just miss her right exactly just a certain way she'll come back. I hate this. And I can't stop it yet.

On the Leaving of the Parade

July 13 is a little tiny raft in the sea moored to the ocean floor. The fishing vessels and sailboats are passing by it as it recedes from my view, becoming smaller and smaller, less and less real, (if we are talking about the densely packed real my human limitations are capable of knowing).

I think I'll write badly, or overly maudlin or childish or spell things wrong. It won't matter. It's just me and you, blog. I'm tempted to say "it's just me and you, Mom, and pretend this site is something like sitting by a headstone and pouring your heart out to it. I can't do that if there is even a chance that someone else might read it, though. I can say this. The picture I call Mom Confidential and the Hands are really comforting for some reason. Miss you. I wish there was a sequence of letters I could write to bring you back. I'd spend every waking moment trying get it right. They broke the Enigma Machine's code, didn't they?

From Sheila. . .

So Sorry to hear about your mom. We are on vacation and I have only had time and access to the Internet. I know that it is hard to loose your mother no matter how old we are. Your mom was a great and very strong women. I can remember going to see you in high school and sitting at the kitchen counter with your mom. Sometimes she would make coffee and we would sit and talk for a half hour before I even got to you. Sometimes it was wonderful because my own mother wasn't always at her best while I was in high school. It was nice to know I had an adult who would listen and subtlety advise. I love the picture you posted on facebook.

It is a wonderful and happy picture and really seems to capture her.

This picture was taken of Sheila and Elyse about 1973, probably at the Hollywood Lane parade - the lady off to the left is my mom. She rarely attended any of our Notre Dame Band Color Guard events, so that's my story and I'm sticking to it! :)

"Wouldn't you be upset if you didn't see your mom for six hours?"

That question was put to me by a distraught Valerie when she was about 5 years old and had been taken to the beach by our neighbor Kevin Holland. For reasons lost to me now, they ended up being gone for quite a while longer than planned. It was dark when they got home, and even though Valerie knew Kevin and played with his son Mason all the time, she was upset and tearful.

The question is sweet in it's naivete and a window into a child's perception of time and space (I think my mother lived in Seabeck, Washington at the time) but today it really resonates in my heart. I've come to understand something lately, and that is the perception of our mother's presence. I didn't talk to my mother every day, or even every week. Several months would go by between visits. Neither my mom or I are phone chit-chatters. She didn't like her soap viewing time interrupted or calls at night after 7pm. She never learned to use e-mail. But somewhere, somehow inside of me there must have been a constant surrounding sense of her presence because now that it's gone, I feel the pain and emptiness that something very large and long that was there is not there anymore and really, I think I feel like Valerie did when it was late and dark and she was in unfamiliar surroundings and she couldn't reach out and touch me and she really didn't know where I was. I know I can't touch my mom anymore. I can't see her face again. It's dark and I don't really know where she is.

If there is a Heaven I know my mother is there. If there is a Heaven I would like to think I would go there too so I could see my mom again (and my dad, stepdad, grandparents (known to me and not known to me)well I guess everyone who has died before me that I've been curious about. But, I am still here on earth and I know religion is an abstraction I have struggled to come to terms with. I hope I see her again, but the pain is sharp now. Do other people feel as if their lost loved one should just be coming back home now after all the funeral distraction stuff is gone and silence is the only thing murmuring in my mind? I think I hear the creaking of the door! Is it my mom? I think I'll leave that question open for now.

I wish I could freeze time. It's been only two weeks since my mom passed away, but I have the unsettling feeling that she is drifting farther and farther away. I had the same feeling in June of 1992 after my dad died when we were taken by a boat outside Marina Del Rey to scatter his ashes, but in that situation we saw with our eyes the basket of ashes sinking, the bright red and pink flowers floating up, and the little group of birds that spontaneously circled around the flowers, floating with them like miniature feathered sentries.

Now that all the planning for her service, the exchanging of e-mails and scanning pictures has slowed down, a gray fog of emptiness has descended somewhere around my heart, or all over my "soul". I think of my soul as exactly that thing drawn on a chalkboard in first grade by my teacher, Sister Delores. Has any gringa other than me wondered if the name "Dolores" is meant as the Spanish word for pain or hurt, dolores? Catholics have never shied away from images of suffering in it's liturgy. Anyway, back to the soul thing. It was a rectangular diagram, slightly wider on top drawn with yellow chalk. She meant to illustrate "sin". She did it by scribbling all over the little soul diagram. She then told us about "confession". She picked up an eraser and erased the scribbled marks on the soul diagram to illustrate being cleansed of your sins. To this day I see that drawing when I think of my soul. Funny how those things are burned into our young minds when we are six years old and the subject is salvation.

I want to curl up like a pillbug and shut everything out.

My Mother's Day

The Church sits on a little rise facing the vast blue ocean. It seems to look over the busy freeway and clusters of roadside businesses and see only the sea and sky beyond, even beyond the horizon.

Our Lady of Fatima held the group inside. Friends, family and those who accompanied them filed into the foyer with pictures of my mom arranged on a table, exchanging hugs and quiet greetings. As I walked into the church, I was surprised to see so many people filling the pews, but I guess I shouldn't have been. Groups of Red Hat ladies, friends from Curves, co-workers of Brad, Wendy and Matt, cherished childhood friends since the days of Incarnation School; all reaffirming how special my mom really was.

This particular church reminded me of our parish St. Frances de Sales in Sherman Oaks, where Jeff Reed and I attended school until 1967. The two churches are notable for their simplicity. As a girl this bothered me. I really thought churches should resemble Notre Dame Cathedral, or if that wasn't possible, at least Saint Charles Borromeo, our neighboring parish in North Hollywood. Now, they seem just right, because they reflect the quality I had planned to talk about if I spoke, and coincidentally used by Gretchen in her wonderful remembrance, "she was not pretentious".That's how it seemed the tall mosaic of Our Lady in front of us was. Not pretentious. Calm. Sweet. Even her outstretched arms with upturned palms seemed soothing.

Thank you Father Ramos. Your words about the glittering Sea of Galilee and hills of the Holy Land that you had recently visited were inspiring. It meant so much that my mother's cousin Monsignor Gibson participated in the celebration of the Mass, as well as Julia and Uncle Bill. The music and voice were perfect. I know my mother loved them.
~~~~~~

I miss you so much, Mom. I really can't believe you're gone. My mind plays tricks on me. The thought, "I'll ask Mom" or "I'll tell Mom" pops into my thoughts so often, followed by a stab of pain. Today I had to catch myself as the words became audible. "I'll have to che--" Oh. No. I wonder if the person I said that to noticed. I knew this day would come, but at the same time tried to cling to the idea that it never would.

Now I live in the reality of the sweet sketch by Carol Burnett and Whoopie Goldberg in 1986. Mother and daughter through the years, gradually exchanging roles, but always the tender song and loving embrace as they said goodbye and I committed to memory:

"Where are you going?
Wish that I knew
You're off to wherever
May your dreams come true
Where is wherever?
We never will know
How can I ever let you go?"

From Barbara and Larry Pintar. . .

~Paternal grandparents of Sue's grandchildren Alan and Valerie Pintar~

Sue will be greatly missed by family and friends. I'm thinking back to the days when our grandchildren were younger, and we all lived close by. What fun it was to get together! Alan's and Valerie's home baptisms and celebrations were happy times indeed. Then there was the Christmas time, when Great-grandpa and Peggy ( She's 101 now.) were also present. Always great food and wonderful conversation. Especially memorable was the Christmas that Sue made an entire suitcase full of outfits for Valerie's doll--little dresses, coats, hats, shoes--everything that a little girl could want for her doll. The extremely intricate stitches, each made with such care surely reflected Sue's love.

Services for Sue Rambo

"Our Lady-Fatima Catholic Church
105 N La Esperanza
San Clemente, CA 92672
949-492-4101
Services for Sue Rambo will be held at 11:00 a.m on Friday July 23, 2010 at the church above.
Following services there will be a gathering at the home of Matt Rambo.
27352 Vista Azul, Capistrano Beach, CA 92624 949 489-3550
All are welcome to come and celebrate the life of a beautiful mother and friend."

From Auntie Mar. . .

I remember telling Sue on her 73rd BD how thrilled Jerry 9, and I, 10 were when our parents told us they were expecting. There was no way of finding out the sex then so we were thrilled to have a baby sister and born on the same day as the Dione Quintuplets in Canada. Grandma enjoyed telling her friends she could have brought a little fame to Glendale if she had had five!

Love,

Auntie Mar.

Obituary~ Los Angeles Times~ July 17, 2010

Obituary~ Glendale News Press

Susan Kathleen Rambo,76, passed away in San Clemente, California on July 13, 2010.

Born on May 28, 1934 in Glendale, California to Kathryn and William Nicholas Korth, Susan is a graduate of Holy Family High School‘52 and Glendale Community College‘54. A devoted mother, wife and gifted artist, she blessed us with her presence and made us laugh with her wonderful sense of humor every day until she left us to join her beloved husband in the arms of the Lord.

Susan is preceded in death by her parents, brother Jerome Korth, and husband William Monsen Rambo. She is survived by sister Mary Ann Kaffer, sons Jeffrey Reed, Eric Reed and Matthew Rambo, stepsons Bradley Rambo and Jeffrey Rambo, daughter Elyse Reed Pintar, stepdaughter Melinda Rambo Siks and 11 grandchildren.

Private memorial and Requiem Mass will be held. Memorial contributions can be made to the American Cancer Society in her name.