Yes, it has been exactly one year since our beloved grandfather, stepfather and father-in-law died. Sometimes, the loss feels so new and raw, as when I think about asking Harlan what's going on with one of the apple trees in the yard or when I see a photo of his always-smiling face. Other times, it seems we lost him so long ago, and I am sure that is because so much has happened in the year since Harlan's death. Yet, when I think of him and his battle with esophageal cancer, I immediately also think of Todd's dad and how it will be nearly two years since he died. It's been more than a year, and two years, and three years since we lost our beloved nephews. Time marches on, marked by life's events and by death.
As I was thinking of Harlan's tender spirit, and praying for his dear wife and daughter and son and his adored grandchildren, an analogy (with some backstory) came to mind. Please bear with me:
Well more than 20 years ago, before any of us knew Harlan, when I was finishing my undergraduate degree, my sister-in-law Lisa and I were roommates for a time. One morning, Lisa observed me making toast and asked, "Aren't you going to put any butter on it?" I said, no, I never buttered my toast, because I was also spreading jam and/or peanut butter, so the butter really wasn't necessary. Plus, I really didn't want the extra fat or calories. My future SIL looked at me as though I'd grown another head, and advised me I really should butter the toast. When I asked why, she replied, "Because butter makes toast better." I shrugged and we both went on our ways. But, the next time I had toast, I thought about what Lisa said and I first buttered it before adding jam. It was really good.
So, it came to me: Harlan was butter.
Harlan was a staple in most everything-- home, family, church, University of Minnesota Extension, 4-H, extended family, longstanding friendships, the neighborhood, the community. Once you had Harlan, as once you had butter, you would not ever go without. He was smooth. He was versatile and flexible. Harlan added a layer of richness, sweetness over everything. Sometimes, he could be firm. Other times, he was easily and thinly spread. Often, you wouldn't even notice Harlan was there... But, then, you would surely notice he wasn't.
There's another layer to this analogy, and I share it not to poke fun, but because it's true and it's LOVE: My mother-in-law adores butter. We have joked she might not be able to survive without it. But, truly. Butter is a mainstay of her kitchen and of her table. In the years following bariatric surgery, butter actually played a somewhat therapeutic, if not medicinal, role in what she could eat. She has introduced butter to my kids' palates in ways I would not have considered (remember, at one time, I did not butter toast.) I have noticed many times over the years that a little bit of butter seems to make a big difference for my MIL.
For everyone.
Also today, I was making cupcakes because it is my mother's birthday. I'm a lazy cook and even less of a baker, but I learned long ago that all our family members are snobs about one thing: frosting. Nothing out of the can for these sweeties. Mom commented on the frosting right away-- it was a mild, lemon buttercream. I whipped it with a considerable amount of butter.
We are a butter family. No margarine or whatever else here. There is butter on the table at every meal, and I always have a few extra pounds of butter in the freezer. Like butter, Harlan made an impact without always being the center of attention. When butter is on sale, I stock up. So was our time on Earth with Harlan; so are our memories still. We stockpile them, pull them out, discuss them, carry Harlan with us.
