I woke up early without an alarm today. I glanced at the clock in an unfamiliar room. It was 5:07 AM. I checked in on my sister. She was holding a vigil, sleeping in the hospital bed brought in just for my mother. “You okay? Need anything?” I asked. “I didn’t sleep much,” she replied. “If you want to sit with Mom for a while, I will try to get some sleep.” Pausing for a moment to consider the request, I said in a somber tone, “I’ll get some coffee and then spell you.” I went out to my truck to get what was left of yesterday’s coffee. Though it might be the Mussel Mecca of the United States, Coupeville, Washington is still just a bucolic little burg on Whidbey Island without a Starbucks. The coffee shop on the pier isn’t open at 5:15 in the morning. I stumbled into the kitchen to reheat my old coffee. Looking around, I asked myself, “Where’s the microwave?” I looked in the dining room. Nothing there. “Who doesn’t have a microwave?” I wondered. Generation gaps are often times about differences, not similarities. Evidently my mother, born in 1932, never thought she needed a microwave. I still remember my first one, a Panasonic, given to my wife and me by her parents in 1982. It was the size of a Volkswagen Bug. We used it every day for 18 years. Do you own a microwave? Of course you do. Why? It’s fast and easy. Americans love fast and easy. I grabbed a pan, turned on the gas stove, and heated yesterday’s coffee the old-fashioned way, slow and hard. It took about ten minutes instead of 60 seconds. I sat on the deck, grabbed the last book my mother read, have a little faith by Mitch Albom. I began to read and wait. That was a blessing. I caught the sunrise coming up over Puget Sound. I could see Mt. Baker, covered in snow, in the distance. It was exactly what I needed, a little time to slow down, think, and gain some perspective. It wasn’t quite a year ago when my little family of five met “Nanny” for breakfast over the holidays. That is what my boys called my mother. She was British and I called her Mum. We had a grand time because all the boys were in the same time zone and area code. She was in her glory. She had been a huge part in their development, consistently giving them family history, unconditional love, tender loving care, and gentle guidance on weekend trip “to the island” that only a grandmother can provide. Grief doesn’t have stages, it has facets: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, and acceptance. As we navigate through these extreme emotions, we jump around, in no particular order, like a pinball in the machine. Emotions are all over the place as we cry, laugh, or get mad. Then we turn to what we know for solace and comfort. My brother, Bruce, plays his guitar, his best friend for 45 years. My sister, Suze, goes into full-throttle Nurse Helen mode, serving, caring, and nurturing. I grab my journal and write. It’s how I cope, how I process the grief. It helps. I make lists. It’s a simple little exercise which only takes a few minutes. A quick list, written or verbal, becomes a mini-celebration and a way to honor a loved one. It made sense to me to write down “Five Great Things About Jean Matteson.” Five Great Things About Jean Matteson: 1.She was, and is, the glue that binds together all the diverse personalities in our crazy family, the voice of reason and objectivity. 2.She loves to read, especially books, fiction and non- fiction, all from the library. 3.She was a woman of letters; she wrote them every day, old-school, with pen and paper, envelopes and stamps. 4.Her English accent was very charming and people enjoyed being around her. She was always very polite, very proper, very British. 5.She made a mean cup of tea and had rules around making it. It’s why she never had a microwave. There are some things that just aren’t done. So now you know the answer to the question, “Who doesn’t have a microwave?” My mother. Sometimes fast and easy isn’t best. Making the time to heat a cup of tea in a kettle gives us time to think, to slow down, to enjoy the process. I need to stop writing now. My sister needs me to spell her. It’s almost time now, time for Jean to join Bob. He is waiting impatiently. Fifty five years of marriage will do that. The sweet hereafter beckons–with no microwaves. After I finished writing this, my sister said to me, “Mark, the microwave is above the stove. How could you miss it?” Answer? I’m a guy grappling with the facets of grief. Nanny passed away on June 27th, 2010 at 9:55 PM, surrounded by her family with waves of love and prayer. She slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God.