Who knew?

My mother at age 3 in her grandmother's garden.
Red Wing, Minnesota, 1936.

It's 3:30 in the morning. I wake every night and stare at the ceiling for hours. If you asked me if it's because my mother died, I would say no. But I think it somehow is. And while the nights are long, the days are hurtling by. The paperwork to be taken care of is staggering. As Donald Trump says of health care, nobody knew death could be so complicated.

It's a bad sign when you're quoting Donald Trump.

I've closed or redirected 14 accounts, ranging from health insurance to cable TV to drug companies and doctors. I'm in regular touch with my mom's lawyer, her financial guy, bankers, and people in suits who have some claim or owe something. I want my old life back, but it'll be a while, a month and a half or so, I think.

It starts getting dark here about 4:30 in the afternoon. Milwaukee is unspeakably gloomy, but I try to get out every day and walk along the lakefront and past the shops on Brady. I do it to clear my head and reattach myself to my physical being, but sometimes my mind races and I pull my ear buds out and write a note on my hand.

My sisters have begun to go through Mom's recipes. Many of them are neatly typed or written on cards, with additional scribbled notes and food stains. She kept track of the source of the recipes, and if you knew her very well, your name is probably there. Sister L calls it Recipe Archaeology, and it tells a whole story of its own that I never would have thought of.

We're holding a memorial service at 2 p.m. Saturday, Jan. 13, at Zion Lutheran Church, 1501 W. Liberty St., Ann Arbor. Free coffee and treats in the basement to follow. We hope to see you there!

Recipe Archaeology

The state of things.