Life in the Little Things

Newsletter Issue #74

I’ve been thinking about life’s little moments lately. The teensiest, most insignificant ones. And bonus … now that I’ve turned 65, I’ve been thinking about death too. I don’t know when I will die, but it is almost certainly going to happen someday. My youngest granddaughter is four years old, and like most four-year-olds, she’s fascinated with the concept of death. She asks me things like, “Is your mom dead?” and, “Is your grandma dead?” and, “Will we die if we don’t drink water?” and her favorite, “Are you dying?” She gets me.

I’ve been thinking about death, but not in a bad way. Not in a scared way. More in an acceptance and a planning-for-the-inevitable sort of way. Which then, of course, convinces me that I must be approaching death if I’m thinking about these things. But it’s not that—it’s not that death is tapping me on the shoulder. I mean, it could be that. I don’t know, do I? But I think I have a lot of years left ahead of me, and in some ways, my life is just beginning—this is a really great phase of life.

Death is a big thing—it makes sense that, somewhere along the way, we have to begin doing the work of accepting it. But I think it’s more than that. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my mom’s passing, and the things we got to say to one another, but mostly the things we didn’t get to say. The knowledge that you’ll never get the chance to say some things you’ve been meaning to say is heartbreaking. I don’t want my own children to feel that after I’m gone—the sadness of all the things left unsaid.

I’ve been thinking about what I want my children to know after I’m gone, especially if it happens suddenly or unexpectedly. Which is what happened with my mom. I was supposed to drive over to visit my parents the day before my mom died. I’d planned to make the trip with my children from my house in Lemoore to my parents’ house in Pine Canyon, about two hours away. That morning, the kids and I got up and got ready to go, and then we walked out the front door. I locked the door behind me, and I turned around. There in the driveway sat my then-husband’s small, two-seater pickup truck. He’d taken the family car fishing early that morning and stranded me with a truck that was too small to transport me and the kids to my parents’ house. I’d like to think it was a mistake on his part, but knowing him as I did, I know it was not. When I tell you that, two weeks after my mother died, he said to me, “It’s been two weeks. When are you going to get over it? You’re depressing to be around,” you’ll know it too—it wasn’t a mistake.

So I didn’t get to spend that last day with my mom and dad, watching the San Francisco 49ers stomp the Dallas Cowboys in the 1995 NFC Championship.¹ Instead, my mom and I spent a couple of hours talking on the telephone while the kids watched The Boss Baby on television. She couldn’t have known this was her last day, and I couldn’t have known either. But maybe we both should have sensed it. She shared a secret with me—she’d added mayonnaise to the chocolate cake she’d baked for my dad that morning. My dad hated mayonnaise—he wouldn’t have eaten the cake if he’d known—but he loved the cake. My mom and I laughed about that.² But she wanted to talk about deep things too, which wasn’t really like her. She told me, for the first time, that she believed me when I said I was assaulted when I was fourteen years old. I’d lived a lifetime thinking she didn’t believe me. And she asked me to find my sister, who was deep in the throes of heroin addiction at the time, and to reconcile with her and help her. I promised her that I would.³ I didn’t know it then, but my mom had sent my youngest brother on a similar mission that day, to reconcile with our meth-addicted brother.⁴

Long after the events of that day were over and I’d gone to bed, I got the call from my dad in the middle of the night. I rushed to my mom’s side, but it was too late. She was in a coma from which she never awoke.

So I’m working through all that (for the millionth time), and I’m thinking about what I want my children to know and how to go about telling them without them thinking I’m losing my mind or being too morbid. Of course, they’re probably going to think those things no matter what, but that’s okay.

One thing I want my children to know is this: I wasn’t always a good mother to you, and I’m sorry. If I could have one do-over in my life, it would be to go back and raise you all over again. Only better this time. I hope you’ll remember the good things and forgive me the bad things.

Another thing I want them to know is this: If I die today, I die happy. Do I wish for more? Of course I do. I have three incredible children who are smart, funny, loving, and kind. Being your mom has been the greatest joy in my life. You all make me laugh so much. I have four amazing grandchildren who are all just like you. Spending time with any or all of you is my favorite thing—apologies to my friends, but I’ve canceled on you so many times because an opportunity came up to spend time with my children instead. Who wouldn’t want more of all of that? So yes, I’d love more, if it works out. But believe me when I say, my heart is full, and I’ve been blessed with so much more than enough already.

I’m finally making progress in the writing career I’ve always dreamed of for myself, and my first book is coming out soon. I am happy about that, yes. Over the moon. But at the same time, I know how unimportant that is in the big scheme of things. If I get there, great. If I don’t, my squad has promised to make sure my book gets published post mortem. And I’ll be dead, so I probably won’t care much. But thank you, Amy, Anna, and Jackie, for the reassurance that this gives me now, while I’m living.

It’s the little things. It’s always the little things. It has always been the little things, only there was a time when I was trying so hard for the big things that I didn’t give the little things their due. It took me a lifetime to learn that life is in the little things—the small and seemingly insignificant moments. Read or watch Our Town and you’ll get it—life is in the day-to-day. Because I know this, I no longer need the big things, and I’m so much more than satisfied with everything I’ve already been blessed with. The big things are just a nice bonus. :)

XOXO

Leanne

“That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.”

—Emily Dickinson

NEWS & ANNOUNCEMENTS

Please join me at the Central Coast Writers’ Conference September 26th & 27th in sunny San Luis Obispo, California! Friday afternoon, Brenna Humphries, M. Golda Turner, and I will host a panel on the benefits of finding your writing community. Late Friday afternoon, I’m talking about Funding Your Writing Career with Grants, Fellowships, and Residencies. Saturday, I’ll be presenting on Strengthening Your Brand & Resume by Publishing Short Pieces.

“When you survive loss, everyone is quick to tell you how strong you are, and how tough you must be. But actually, no one has a choice to survive grief do they? It’s not optional. You just have to cry in the shower, sob in your pillow, and pray you will make it.”

—Zoe Clark-Coates

SOME THINGS FOR READERS

8 Books That Reimagine What It Means to Live on Earth: Space doesn’t belong to billionaires. It belongs to storytellers and dreamers.
(Daisy Atterbury for Electric Literature)

Say Gay
(Paul Crenshaw for Melt With Me)

The Lottery
(fiction by Shirley Jackson for The New Yorker)
Editor’s note: “The Lottery” was first published in The New Yorker on 6/18/1948 during the second “Red Scare”. According to Wikipedia: “A Red Scare is a form of moral panic provoked by fear of the rise of left-wing ideologies in a society, especially communism and socialism. Historically, red scares have led to mass political persecution, scapegoating, and the ousting of those in government positions who have had connections with left-wing movements.”

“Death is beautiful when seen to be a law, and not an accident.”

—Henry David Thoreau

SOME THINGS FOR WRITERS

8 Ways to Use Theme to Deepen Your Story
(Sharon Skinner for Jane Friedman)

As I Writer I Should Be Committed: How Community Saved Me
(Char Wilkins for The Brevity Blog)

How Naming a Character Is Like Naming a Child
(Ginny Kubitz Moyer for Jane Friedman)

How to Publish a Memoir and Not Die of Exposure
(Vicki DeArmon for Publishing with Vicki DeArmon)

3 Common Fears of Hiring a Freelance Editor
(Hannah de Keijzer for Jane Friedman)

“What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose,
for all that we love deeply becomes part of us.”

—Helen Keller

SOMETHING TO MAKE YOU LAUGH

“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.”

—Marcus Aurelius

Leanne Phillips
Writer | Book Coach | Editor
​leannephillips.com

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1. I’ve wondered for 30 years why my ex-husband would have done what he did, and it just now struck me what it might have been. I am a San Francisco 49ers fan, and he was a Dallas Cowboys fan, and I might have done a little too much trash-talking. I always say my two favorite NFL football teams are the 49ers and whichever team is playing the Cowboys. Keeping me from watching the game with my parents may have been his passive-aggressive retribution. Note: The 49ers went on to win the Super Bowl that year, too.

2. When we got back to my parents’ house after my mom died, I watched as my dad ate a slice of the chocolate cake my mom had baked for him. Then I told him her secret ingredient, and we laughed about it together. Thank you, mom, for leaving that small moment behind for us. It was topped only by the package deliveries that followed for the next few days—your secret QVC shopping habit was no longer a secret either. :)

3. I kept my promise to my mother. I found my sister in time for her to come home for our mother’s funeral. I told her about our mom’s dying wish and about how much our mom loved her and wanted good things for her. My sister has been clean for 30 years now, although I can’t take any credit. She did that hard work all on her own, with a nudge from our mom and the support of our dad, and I’m so proud of her each and every day. She’s grown up to be one of the kindest and best women I know.

4. I don’t know that our brother was as fortunate. We’ve been estranged for 15 years. I think and hope that he is doing well, but I don’t know for certain, and I can’t trust him to be in my life or my children’s lives. What I remember most about my brother with respect to our mother’s funeral is that he stole money from our dad and pinned it on our sister, who was an easy target at the time, then sat back and enjoyed the chaos he’d created.