Missing My Mom

Two years ago this morning, on a sunny, crisp fall day, my Mom died. She was declining for days prior, lying in her bed at the adult family home, family sitting vigil at her bedside. The morning before she died she woke up enough to recognize MM and me before slipping back into a coma of sorts. The next day, she was gone, somewhere around 7:30 to 8 AM.

At that sacred moment of her death, my Dad was in the living room at the home, I was en route, driving and my sister not far behind me in her car. The lovely person  in attendance with Mom at the very moment of her last breath was Yerusalem, a very dear and loving caregiver. I'm so glad it was she who was in attendance. I so wanted to  be there, holding Mom's hand. I will regret always ignoring my instinct to stay the night and coming on home to sleep.  These are things that can never be undone.

Today on my drive to work, drops of rain fell from grey skies. Temperatures were in the low 50's. I thought about Mom and all of life that has been lived since her passing. I longed for her presence here and now. I longed for her advice, her wisdom; especially now when there is so much about my life's plan that has been upended.

I figure I will always miss her. Mom missed her mother decades after her death. This may be a loss from which we never fully recover.

I love you, Mom.

He's Meditating on It

Yesterday I shared the news with my 95 year old Dad.

"Laura is pregnant".

A slight, soft smile crossed his face; maybe a small chuckle.

"I guess this means she's getting married", he said.

And then I explained the rest of the story. He was thoughtful,  quiet, absorbing all that I told him. We sat together in silence. He wasn't upset. He wasn't overjoyed. He took it all in. He listened and ate a couple of York peppermint patties.

"I'm meditating.", he said. "I have a lot to think about."

I'll be interested in what his meditation brings forth over the coming weeks. He's such an honest man; honest but also thoughtful.

"She's a beautiful girl that Laura.", he added.



 

Saving Lives for Mother's Day and Every Day

Sure, Mother's Day is nice.... but it seems that each year brings more hype, expectation, and commercialization of what I've learned began with far different intentions. The founder of Mother's Day,  Anna Jarvis  wanted to honor her Mother, a woman who organized an association of women on opposing sides of the Civil War with disarmament and peace being the central goals. In 1914, after Jarvis's petitioning, President Woodrow Wilson officially declared the second Sunday in May as Mother's Day. The focus shifted to a public declaration of honor and thanks to mothers in general. To Jarvis's dismay, within a decade of the official declaration of Mother's Day, rampant consumerism incited her to criticize a confectioner's convention in 1923 by stating, "You are using a beautiful idea as a means of profiteering and as the founder of Mother's Day, I demand that it cease."  She didn't have much sway with the momentum inherent in making a buck.

When my two kids were young, Mother's Day was an excuse to be pampered  and to expect some better behavior out of  them. Now as  an empty-nester, mother to twenty-somethings, a phone call from them wishing me a nice day sits well. Cards and gifts aren't necessary. It feels weird to have my own Mom gone these last two years; the ritual pull of  selecting a card and stopping by or calling is forever a memory.  Recently MM and I  sorted through hundreds of greeting cards Mom had saved through the years. Many were Mother's Day cards from the two of us. We threw them out after looking at each one for a last time.

When I read this powerful Op-Ed piece published in the Sunday NY Times entitled Saving the Lives of Moms, it hit me: this is what we should be thinking about on Mother's Day. Instead of spending money on flowers, candy, and cards we should be thinking about how to change the lives of girls forced into motherhood at  young, grossly inappropriate ages and whose lives are made a living hell by obstetric fistulae. The article commends the dedicated work of Dr. Arrowsmith, a urologist who has devoted his professional life to repairing fistulas at the Addis Abba Fistula Hospital in Ethiopia. The hospital was founded by Drs.Reginald and Catherine Hamlin years ago. Dr. Hamlin says;


"These women are the poorest of the poor. They're alone in the world without hope, without friends. They bear their sorrows in silent shame. Their miseries, untreated are utterly lonely and lifelong."


I'm going to honor my Mother by sending a donation to the cause. I'm confident she'd be pleased.

Let's think about how we celebrate. 18 billion dollars was spent to honor our mothers yesterday. Think how even a fraction of that amount might change the lives of less fortunate women who live a hellish nightmare as a result of becoming mothers.

"You Two Girls Will Have a Big Job on Your Hands"

On more than one occasion Mom mused about what it would be to "break up this house". She was referring to their home in Seattle, a place she and my Dad purchased in 1999 when they relocated from Houston. As an aside; that particular move was a huge undertaking after living in the same dwelling for over 20 years. But, truly,"breaking up this house" implies to me the final accounting and disposition of all of the physical possessions found therein.

When my parents sold their Houston townhouse, Mom made disposition on every item, deciding whether it was to be tossed, donated, put in a garage sale, gifted to family members or packed up for the journey to Seattle. When it came to items gifted to  family, I remember the image of her dining room table and the top of the buffet loaded with porcelain figurines, crystal, dishes, silver pieces, and artwork. The family arrived for "the viewing" and many items left with new owners. Mom was pleased; always happy when someone really wanted or had use for something she cherished but was ready to turn over. Quite a few of those treasures found their way into my home and I love them.

Despite the major downsizing accomplished with their move to Seattle, before long it seemed that the smaller home promptly absorbed all their belonging from the "keep" category . Beyond the expected clothing, linens,furniture, artwork, books, and kitchenware there appeared box after box of family history in the form of photographs, old letters, documents and memorabilia. Ahhhhh; memorabilia. This is the stuff you've got to look at bit by bit to be sure there isn't buried treasure in amongst the junk.My sister and I've already tackled some of that sort of work over the last few years. We found you can only go through a box or two; any more and you start to get very weary.

But on to the story....

Happily, Mom and Dad enjoyed seven good years at the Arapahoe house. When their physical and mental health declined, moving to a retirement facility was the next step. The transition was really tough. Although Dad was willing to surrender his car keys and live in a small apartment, Mom dug in her heels. Her resistance was both active and passive simultaneously.  As a child of the Great Depression, she mourned the loss of her lovely home and manifested her displeasure and anxiety by succumbing to incapacitation.  She simply couldn't (or wouldn't?) participate in making decisions.  In retrospect, I suspect her dementia was slowly destroying her usual decisive, organized mind.  In the end, the move was accomplished by the tenacious, steady determination of family members (thanks MM, Mary B and JT) who  took control of the sorting, selecting and packing.  Meanwhile, Mom remarked she was being "Shang-haied", into the move.  Oh, my.

And now....we find ourselves looking ahead to the sale of their former home, a dwelling left relatively intact since Mom and Dad moved out in 2006. The house has been well used by out of town family in town for holidays and visits. More importantly, in my opinion, we kept the house fully furnished and 'up and running' as a way of reassuring Mom that her home was still there, intact and ready for her if she should need or want to move back one day. However, within their first year at the retirement apartment, both Mom and Dad suffered significant illness and it was clear to all that "going back home" was a pipe dream. Nonetheless, we kept the house up, enjoying family meals together around the dining room table, birthday celebrations, and many visits to the house just to walk the rooms, look around, pick up a book and more.  Mom took comfort seeing things much as she'd left them. Intact.

There is much work to be done before the home can be put on the market. The largest task is to go through ALL of the contents of the house, piece by piece whether the item be the size of a dining room table or as small as a piece of jewelry. Every piece of paper or photograph may be important. Or, not. My sister and I will sort, make decisions big and small, catalog the contents, and start the process of equitable distribution. There are we three offspring and seven grandchildren to consider.

Mom admitted to me more than once, that "you girls will have a big job on your hands after we're gone".  She assigned this task to her girls, not to her son. And so it is. We start in earnest tomorrow with my Dad's blessing. He's well aware of our plans to prepare the house for sale. I know Mom will be there in spirit, perhaps as the cawing crow perched on the roof of the house admonishing us to be thoughtful about all of our decisions. I promise, Mom. I promise.

Mom's Stuff

There are still signs of my Mom everywhere even though she's been gone for over a year. Several weeks ago the lead caregiver at the adult family home asked me to sort through her makeup and perfumes which were still in a drawer of a small cabinet in Dad's room. I've known they were there; it just seemed that leaving them as they were was "OK". But, for some reason, the issue came up and I removed them. Most of the perfume was old and beyond use but I did save the Shalimar, a scent she rarely wore in recent years but a perfume she treasured.

The small, well worn zippered makeup bag I casually dropped in my closet, not sure when I would feel in the mood to look through it. Today was the day. Not much to keep; old Mary Kay lipsticks and eye shadows, a variety of make-up brushes, an eyebrow pencil and some fingernail implements. I pitched them all and the case in the trash after holding each one in my hands and mentally saying a quick good bye.

Remaining is a old train case containing all of her jewelry. One of these days MM and I will need to apportion the contents to Mom's granddaughters and perhaps the great granddaughters. We've already selected items for ourselves long ago, when Mom was alive. She enjoyed seeing us wear different pieces that were special to her.

I have all Mom's glasses in cases; she apparently kept every pair for the last twenty years. Apparently these can be donated at optical shops, suitable for recycling or reuse. I'll drop these off when I remember.

The process is surprisingly slow. but at least I'm feeling less emotional about all these things that belonged to Mom. Less raw, I suppose. They, after all, aren't her. They're just things she had or used in some way. It's time to let go.

The  larger task is Mom and Dad's former home. We'll be tackling that project in pieces. As Mom once told me....."You and your sister are going to have quite a job on your hands (what about our brother, Mom? Is he off the hook?) when it comes to breaking up that house." Indeed, Mom. Indeed.

BRRRRRR....

Western Washington has been beaten up by snow, ice, freezing rain, and wind over the last 3 days. The storm isn't over yet. We've a good 6-8 inches of snow at our house and the temperature is only 29 degrees. In other areas, conditions are worse; icy and treacherous. Power is out for a lot of folks from fallen trees, laden with ice.

View from hotel window Wed. AM

Tuesday night before the storm hit, I drove down to Federal Way and checked into a hotel so that I could make it to clinic Wednesday and Thursday. The drive in good weather takes just under an hour each way. I didn't want to fight the snow and ice Wednesday morning and it turns out that was a good call. By Wednesday morning the entire Puget Sound region was blanketed in snow. The 3 mile drive from the hotel to clinic took me almost half an hour on hard pack snow and ice. Due to inclement weather conditions, the clinic closed early, around 1 PM and everyone headed home.

I retreated back to the hotel, put my feet up and read all afternoon. Nice.

Overnight, there was freezing rain in Federal Way coupled with a drop in temperature to 28. Everything turned to ICE. My car was encased in a quarter to half inch of solid, frozen ice when I walked out of the hotel this morning. 30 minutes later, after hacking away with my two dollar ice chipper (did a pretty good job considering), I was ready to roll. Slowly. My car did well considering the conditions.

I definitely got in my work-out today chipping away at recalcitrant ice caked on my windshield, windows, and side rear view mirrors. Chunks came off in sheets that hit the ground and shattered into smaller pieces. Check out these photos of my car during the process.

Hard to believe this is my windshield from inside the car

Had to muscle my way into the car; frozen shut.

The frozen back window

Looks like cracks in the mirror but it's all ICE!

The drive to clinic once my car was de-iced wasn't too bad. Half a dozen brave patients made it in for their appointments but again, by 1 PM, the clinic shut down for the day.

The harrowing part of the journey was the drive back up Interstate 5 into Seattle with blowing winds, chunks of ice flying off of passing vehicles and blocking visibility, and intermittently icy roads. By the time I got into my neighborhood the roads were laden with freshly fallen snow which was almost fun to drive through compared to the freezing rain and ice. All a matter of perspective I suppose....

I'm so glad to be home!  It's warm, the power is on, and tomorrow is another day.

Guide You Safely Through the Wild

I'm missing my Mom so much this Christmas; more than I did last year when her death was so new. Funny how the deep longing for her presence is so much more acute this holiday season. My eyes well up quickly, the emotions just below the surface ready to bubble up at any moment.

Listening to Mom's Christmas choir tapes provides a sure-fire on switch for me to let loose the sadness inside me. The other night we listened to a  recording of  her choir and this piece in particular brought me back to my childhood Christmases. I've never paid attention to the words until now.  This is the Shepherd's Farewell by French composer Hector Berlioz from the mid 19th century. I find it fascinating to learn more about things I took for granted in my young life. Decades later this piece haunts me but in a good way. The lyrics of this piece describe the prayer of the shepherds as they bid goodbye to the Holy family escaping into Egypt. (Matthew 2: 13)

This piece IS my mother set to music. She could have written these words, particularly the last two lines: "God go with you, God protect you....(and most of all) guide you safely through the wild". She was the consummate worrier and the one who prayed for our safety constantly. The wild, the perfect metaphor for all the dangers out there,  represents all she ever feared in a single word. I know this. I am her daughter and much the same.

L'enfance du Christ

Thou must leave thy lowly dwelling,
The humble crib, the stable bare.
Babe, all mortal babes excelling,
Content our earthly lot to share.
Loving father, loving mother,
Shelter thee with tender care. 

Blessed Jesus, we implore thee
With humble hearts and holy fear,
In that land that lies before thee,
Forget not us who linger here.
May the shepherd's lowly calling
Ever to thy heart be dear. 

Blessed are ye beyond all measure,
Thou loving father, mother mild;
Guard thee well thy heavenly treasure,
The Prince of peace, the holy child.
God go with you, God protect you,
Guide you safely through the wild.

I miss you, Mom. Guide you safely through the wild.

How Can We Ever Fathom the Pain?

I knew this young girl, Arwen Morgan. She and Laura were classmates and good friends at Blaine Elementary. There were sleepovers, outings to the Folklife Festival (Arwen came from a family of musicians), meals together, a garage sale they organized  and secrets that only young girls share. Arwen and Laura went their separate ways after grade school but intermittently stayed in touch. I remember seeing Arwen in a coffee shop a few years back; she came over to greet Denny and me and shared that she was studying at the Cornish School for the Arts. Where had all the years gone? Suddenly Arwen was grown up, just like Laura; young, beautiful and ready to take on life with passionate energy.

I learned this morning that Arwen committed suicide in July of this year; I hadn't heard. Neither had Laura. Her mother, Teresa, overcome with grief and unable to survive her loss,  jumped to her death less than 3 weeks ago. What a tragedy; a family ripped apart. Laura and I talked tonight about Arwen's death. Both of us cannot fathom the "whys" of this sadness. She struck us both as a self confident, grounded young woman. Then again, we can never know the mental suffering of another. So sad. So overwhelmingly sad; for Arwen, for her mother, Teresa, and for their family.

I'm filled with memories of a better time tonight; a time when two young girls played together and their parents had hopes and dreams for their future.

Mothers and Fathers are never supposed to lose a child. If so, the natural order of the universe, violated, dissolves into devastating insanity, irreconcilable.  I immediately think of my daughter. And, then I think of Teresa's reaction to the loss of her daughter. I get it; from where I stand right now: I get it.

And, then I think of a close girlfriend who suffered the unimaginable; the loss of both her children. How is this survivable, I wonder. I suppose we can only know if we are there, living the agony. Otherwise, we can only wonder.

1917-2010

Her favorite psalm, the 91st.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, 
  who abides in the shadow of the Almighty,
will say to the Lord, "My refuge and my fortress;
  my Go, in whom I trust."
For He will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
  and from the deadly pestilence;
He will cover you with his pinions,
  and under his wings you will find refuge;
His faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
  You will not fear the terror of the night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day,
  nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
Nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.


A thousand may fall at your side,
  ten thousand at your right hand;
But it will not come near you.
  You will only look with your eyes
and see the recompense of the wicked.
  Because you have made the Lord your refuge,
the Most High your habitation,
  no evil shall befall you,
No scourge come near your tent.
  For He will give his angels charge of you
To guard you in all your ways.
  On their hands they will bear you up,
Lest you dash your foot against a stone.
  You will tread on the lion and the adder,
the young lion and the serpent
  you will trample under foot.
Because he cleaves to me in love, I will deliver him;
  I will protect him, because he knows my name.
When he calls to me, I will answer him;
  I will be with him in trouble,
  I will rescue him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him,
  and show him my salvation.

I wonder why she looked at the world as such a dangerous, treacherous place. Her fears were tangible, permeating her life with visions of disaster and horror. She took great comfort in words like these. She felt safe.

I know that wherever you are now, today, and always; you are safe.

Doris Bain Thompson
1917 - 2010

A Year Ago Tonight

Mary Margaret and I spent the entire day at her bedside. Visitors came and went. Dad sat in his chair in the room keeping a watchful eye on Mom, taking his meals in the bedroom as waited with her. Waited for the inevitable. Laura came and went. Caroline came and went. We worked on a puzzle. We were served coffee.

Towards evening, Mary Margaret went out for take out. We were hungry. She brought back Indian food from a local restaurant; it was quite tasty as I recall. There were leftovers that we put in the house refrigerator and never claimed.

Mom's breathing was erratic all day long. We'd look over at her when there was a longer than anticipated pause in the pattern.  Earlier in the day she was in pain, propped up in bed with her eyes open; she recognized both Mary Margaret and me. She called us by name. It would be the last time.

The day was cool and crisp, sunny. The lawn caretakers were at the property that day, mowing and blowing leaves into piles to be hauled away; fall cleanup.

My biggest regret is that I was not with Mom when she died. How could I have not known that this would be her last night, that the end was so near, that leaving her bedside would be a mistake if my goal was "to be there" at the end?  But, I left. Dad stood at Mom's bedside that evening, bid her goodnight, touched her hand and told her that he loved her. Then, he went to bed. Mary Margaret and I left together to return to my home for the night. We had every intention of continuing the bedside vigil in the morning.

But, as we ate breakfast on Tuesday morning, October 12, 2010, my cell phone rang and the news wasn't good; "Hurry", was the message. Halfway there, I got the call that she was gone. I wasn't able to be there but was in time to break the hard news to my Dad. He was sitting in the family room when I arrived, a worried look on his face, knowing in his heart that something was amiss with his partner of decades, troubled by the fact that no one would tell him anything but instead, had him sit in wait for me to arrive.

She was gone. Her spirit departed, vanished. Mary Margaret and I literally watched the life force disappear from her body over the minutes that we stood by her side.

I wish I had been there to see her take her last breaths. I wish it had been family at the very least. There must have been a reason for my unwillingness to stay the night, to be at her side. For my decision, I'll forever question the reason.

If I could re-do the past, dear Mom, I would do so. God Bless. I miss you and love you always.

Away We Go in a Cloud of Dust...

 Chapter IV

Cairo

A half-dozen swarthy men are at the rail-way station to receive us,--runners from the hotels shouting the merits of their respective houses. We choose the Hotel du Nil, take an omnibus, see our baggage put on a little four-wheeled truck drawn by a diminutive donkey and away we go in a cloud of dust up a wide street, passing through the donkey and camel market, where large droves of those cheerful and solemn animals are exposed for sale. We pass beneath tall palms and wide-spreading sycamores, where a crowd of Arab hucksters are crying their wares; meeting camels laden with stone, timbers, bundles of sugar cane, bales of cotton, and boxes of goods; donkeys with bunches of green clover on their backs; panniers of oranges, or great stone water-jars, and driven by lively, bare-legged urchins; stylish carriages of Parisian manufacture, drawn by spirited horses with monograms and crests on the panels; fleet footed boys running ahead and shouting, "Chemullac! chemullac!" -- "Get out of the way!  get out of the way!" 

From Our New Way Round the World [1869] by Charles Carleton Coffin
       chapter 4, p 32-33
Mr. Coffin was an American journalist, Civil War correspondent, author and politician.

"Away we go in cloud of dust!", the phrase that sprang forth from Mom's mouth whenever the car pulled into the road on our way to anywhere, dances through my mind in these anniversary days of her death. I wonder where she came up with the phrase and kick myself for never asking. I would have needed to inquire long before her death because in her last years, she made up what she couldn't remember.

Today I searched the internet for books or other references for the phrase "away we go in a cloud of dust". I found nothing in the Bible where so many of her favorites bore origin. Could she have possibly read this passage above or the entire book for that matter?  She knew American History inside and out and read prolifically. Historical fiction was a favorite. Who knows?

She may have invented the phrase. To Mom leave-taking in an automobile was always an adventure, be it wonderful or plagued by worry. Leaving in a cloud of dust implied we were on-the-move, seat-belts buckled, peeling out, moving right along, and in our wake, leaving the dust of the past. 

Do I have it correct, Mom? 

A year ago, depending on how you look at the days and dates, we were sitting at her bedside, listening to her erratic breath, encouraging her with loving remarks, comforting each other and knowing that the end was close. Close and inevitable, her first steps on death's wondrous, yet ultimately lonely journey, unfolding.

The next day, when Mom died, I fulfilled my promise to her. I watched as her body left the home, carefully and lovingly placed in a vehicle that pulled out into the road, down the block and around the corner out of my sight. Her being, long departed from her body, had become the amazing, beautiful cloud of dust.

 

What She Told Me: # 10

This might be good advice although I doubt there are many people, myself included, who would do this.

Mom would say, "My Dad always said, if you're hurting somewhere, put a little red pepper in your eye and you'll forget all about what was bothering you". Yep, I bet there's truth in that statement..

I've inadvertently had something akin to red pepper in the eye. Great for wiping the slate clean in terms of other worldly concerns. But as my daughter, and Mom's granddaughter, would say, "Who does that?" with holy emphasis on the does, pronounced like "duzzzzzzz". LOL.

Things She Told Me # 9

"Always offer a firm handshake."

She's so right; this is great advice and one I've given my children. A limp handshake is so disappointing and in my opinion, unacceptable.

Addendum: Do you see what's wrong with the drawing above?

I'm noticing this days after the post published.  For shame; these are left hands. They had better be in a strong grip if there's to be any hope at all....

Things She Told Me: # 8

"May God hold you in the hollow of His hand."

How many times did she pray with me, holding me close as we'd say goodbye for yet another (long) time apart. I left home in 1969 at the age fifteen to finish high school stateside. Mom and Dad stayed on in Aruba for another eight years. The homecomings were sweet, the leave takings wrenching. All through my high school and college years were the highs of reunion and lows of bidding each other goodbye.

I remember those intimate heart-to-heart moments spent with Mom, those last minutes before we'd pile into the car, laden down with luggage, "passports, tickets, and money" to drive to Princess Beatrix airport in Aruba.  With tears blurring our vision, we embraced and allowed the pain of the goodbye flood over us. The months apart loomed around us like a heavy, sad cloud. 

Mom and I were both fearful of flying. We both invented scenarios where planes blew into pieces or spiraled out of control while airborne. She worried about letting me go and probably prayed mightily from the time I left her sight until she knew I'd arrived safely. I was scared in my own way about stepping on that plane. She'd try to comfort me with the image of God's powerful hand protecting that silver bird from any and all potential disaster.

"In the hollow of His hand; in the hollow of Hand, you'll fly...."

Things She Told Me: # 7

Mom had two classic comments about parenting; I heard these over and over and over again. They're both spot on.

"You'll never really know how much you can love a child until you have your own."

and,

"When they are little, they're on your hands;
when they're grown, they're on your heart."

Nothing else need be said....

Things She Told Me: # 6

Mom could make snap decisions about certain people; their intentions, personalities, and style. I was always interested when she'd form impressions based on what she called, "the cut of their jib". An unusual strategy, I would ask her what she meant.  The cut of the jib, to Mom, was the specific angle of one's jaw and the shape of the mouth.

I must say, the few times she predicted  future behavior based on the appearance of a face, impressed me. Nevertheless, I thought it rather strange.In all cases, the predictions were in the negative; snippy behavior, selfishness, arrogance and the like.

As I recall, she told me she heard her own mother comment about the powerful predictive value of the cut of one's jib. At the oddest times, I'll remember her intuitions based on a quick look-see and tend to agree. The face tells all but unlike what my husband says, it may not all be about the eyes.

The phrase comes from maritime tradition. Interesting.

What would she think about the cut of this jib?

Things She Told Me: #5

"Every man is an island."

Yes, she said, "Every man is an island.", in direct contrast to 16th Century poet John Donne who writes in Meditation XVII:

"No man is an island,  entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were;  any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

I only heard her say this a couple of times in my teenage years and each time in the context of a deep and serious conversation about the nature of human relationships. Do we ever really "know" another person?  In retrospect, I  suspect she felt her life was much like an island, adrift in a vast sea of loneliness.  Did she believe others might feel the same? She was confident in her conclusion as if resolved to this view of reality.  

Some days I think she's right.  We may be individual parts of a whole, inter-connected, desperately linked one to another. Yet, we constantly fight a personal reality of disconnectedness, alone-ness on this lonely personal journey we call life. 

Not everything my Mom taught or told me was cheery and bright. For that, I'm grateful.

Things She Told Me: #4

"If you can read, you can sew!"

Mom tried in vain to coax an interest in sewing out of me from the time I was ten or eleven.  She was a very capable seamstress and entirely self taught, a fact which probably motivated her statement. She meticulously followed a pattern, producing amazingly complicated garments; tailored suits, fancy dresses, and jackets. My sister caught the sewing bug which pleased Mom. Unfortunately, I didn't.

I can hem a pair of pants and sew on a button. But, sew as in create a garment?  I once made a straight skirt and thought it a huge amount of work for something that didn't fit too well. No thanks, I'd rather purchase my clothes.

To Mom, sewing was about the challenge. She would rip out a seam and re-do her work to perfection. I would watch her, witness her frustration, observe her tenacity and attention to task. But, I didn't care to take on the challenge myself. I resisted all her efforts to teach me. As an adult, she was still trying to get me interested, offering me one of her sewing machines and looking through pattern books for relatively simple styles.

"If you can read, you can sew!"  represents Mom's general approach to any challenge. Read the instructions and jump in. Anything was possible.

Thanks, Mom.

Things She Told Me: #3

According to Mom, who absolutely loved ice cream eating it with great enjoyment up to a week before she died, the very best part of any ice cream treat was as "the last bite". I'd have to agree. The last bite, so sweet and sad at the same time. The experience comes to and end but leaves you dreaming of the next one ahead.

Mom was especially partial to soft serve ice cream, layered into a cake cone (not those pointy sugar cones). The last bite became the end of the cone. As long as there was a bit of ice cream nestled down in there along with crunchy cone, all was well with the world.

"My, but that's good", she'd say.

Indeed.

Things She Told Me: #2

Just a reminder: this mini-series of posts are memories I have of my Mom; things she told me, lessons learned, advice she gave, and in some cases how being where I am now in my life makes her words all the more interesting to me.

Mom shared with me more than once her personal observation regarding men who had never married by the time they were 35.

"You can pretty much count on it; if they haven't been married by then, they're homosexual."  In later years she used the word "gay" instead.

There were no judgments, just her personal conclusion

I can already think of several exceptions to this rule.