My parents were married on September 26, 1945 and although they always acknowledged the date somehow, I only remember going out for dinner once as a family to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. Mom wore a dress and jacket she had sewn and Dad wore his Sunday-go-to-Meetin' clothes which consisted of his cowboy boots, fresh shirt and pants, his bolero tie and horse-hide vest. The others in attendance were, Dad's sister Judy, my sister and her son, my two kids, their father and me. I can still see us trying to pose for photos out on the lawn after dinner. Dad had his fill at the Beefeater and shared what he thought about going out for dinner and 'paying those prices' when he could have as good, if not better, meal at home. I think that was intended as a compliment to my Mother's cooking but her glare and deaf ears were also part of her evening ensemble. My kids were getting tired, Aunt Judy might have been a few sheets to the wind and I was trying in vane not to be outshone by my sister. The photo was never frame-worthy but it's still a precious memory. Their fiftieth anniversary was a bit better.
I was going through a divorce and quite wrapped up in my own life when my Mom asked me if I would go to City Bakery to pick up a cake she'd ordered. I cheerfully complied. Imagine my surprise when the baker showed me this large sheet cake that said, "Happy Fiftieth Anniversary Ethel and Ted". I had forgotten all about their anniversary, never mind that it was a milestone. I asked Mom why she needed such a large cake and she replied, "For the open house tomorrow at one." She had invited friends to come to the house and celebrate the occasion and hadn't told me. At least I didn't remember her telling me. So I called my brother in Calgary and told him that it would be a great if he and his wife could attend. I was able to get the day off work so I could play hostess. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone bright and warm as the leaves cascaded lazily from the trees to the lawn below like confetti. We took pictures again. Mom and Dad with the bridesmaids, Sybil and Anne. Mom and Dad with Doreen and Hazel. Mom and Dad with my brother and me. Dad unsmiling, Mom smiling enough for both of them. At least forty people came and went. Mom had prepared finger sandwiches and borrowed the big coffee urn from the church. Everyone had a piece of the cake. Dad sat glowering in the kitchen, Mom was lit up like a Christmas tree visiting with all her friends. It was a wonderful event and I was so glad that my brother and I were able to attend. When I asked Mom why she hadn't let me know she was planning it she told me that she figured I had enough going on. That was my Mom, always thinking of the other guy.
On this date one year ago, I asked my Mom about her wedding day. This was all she could tell me. "It was sunny - we got married in St Barnabas church - we had an open house after the ceremony - we went to Lethbridge on the train for our honeymoon." She could only remember the high points, the details were lost. It made me wish I'd asked sooner or asked her to write it down when her memory could still be trusted. But I didn't, so all I have are the photos now, which are precious enough. My parents made a handsome couple; Dad with his movie star good looks and Mom with her tall willowy frame and million dollar smile. Two of her four brothers were groomsmen. John, on the left was the youngest and Walt, on the right was the second oldest. Mom's favorite brother, Tom had been killed in the war just eleven months before the wedding. I can only imagine the hole in her heart that his loss made that day. I don't know where her eldest brother Ed was. Mom always said he was a bit aloof. Mom's attendants were Sybil Taylor on the right and Annie Nikiel on the left. Sybil and Walt had dated at one time. Mom and Sybil became dear friends. Annie and Mom were neighbors growing up and friends all their lives. Annie was the last bridesmaid standing until this year. She passed away just three weeks after Mom.
These two people, my parents - made a life together. They stood up, put up and shut up to make it work. They lived to celebrate fifty-seven years together.
The rest is pixie dust...
The sun breaches the horizon like any other day. Birds sing. Leaves rustle in a gentle breeze. Ducks bob on a pond. People walk dogs and take kids to the park. Others go about a morning commute. Bees buzz. Then the unexpected and unpredictable occurs and renders the day different. The earth sighs and groans and rolls over in its bed. Plates move and oceans surge. Giant waves swell and crash against once calm shores, clawing at coastlines, wreaking havoc. Once the devastation is complete the waters recede leaving the shoreline forever changed. Calm returns - until next time.
This is similar to grief - like one's own personal tsunami. I've been struggling with a fresh wave these past two weeks. Maybe it's because I laid to rest the anger and guilt I felt over Mom's passing, like finally having my say and being heard unleashed new pain. Whatever the reason, I am overcome with loss at the strangest times. I might be out walking the dog, crafting a new piece of jewelry, or talking to a friend. Wherever I am and whatever I'm doing it finds me.
It caught up with me the other day. I attended my first Strathcona County Writer's Group meeting. There were at least twenty-five people sitting elbow-to-elbow in the Birch room. We went through introductions and then it was round table time. Those who wanted to share something they'd written were welcome to do so. The stories and poems were varied and colorful and the writers gifted and open. It was an evening of lively storytelling. The meeting came to a close and I carried my elation at being part of this group out of the library and into the late summer evening; the air kissed with the slight chill of autumn-in-waiting, the sun losing its grip on the day. As I crossed the walkway to my car I thought of Mom and how much she would've enjoyed the meeting, how pleased she would be that I had attended. As a published writer and a founding member of the Medicine Hat Writer's Club she knew my joy. I imagined telling her about it. I think I even skipped a little when I pressed the unlock button on my keyfob. As I pulled the car door closed I only had time to put the key in the ignition before the wave rushed in. I wrapped my arms around the steering wheel, rested my head on my hands and let it wash over me. I let it have its way. When its wrath was spent, the tears stopped and calm returned. I wiped my face, turned the key in the ignition and drove home - just like nothing happened, like my heart didn't break open and I wasn't missing anyone.
It's a splendid thing to miss someone - to want to hold them once more and tell them you love them - to hear their voice and share their laughter - to tell them something important - to long for their reaction - to ache for them. Those who miss and are missed are blessed. Kahlil Gibran said it best when he wrote;
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."
I miss my Mom. The void I feel is like nothing I've ever known. Some days it seems to swallow me whole. But I know that this sense of loss is only because she was my delight, my heart, my friend. So I'll keep riding the waves and see where they take me. I know I'm not surfing alone.
The rest is pixie dust...
The other day
Emma asked me if her Mom was only near when she thought about her. I
told her that her Mom was always near. But when she thinks about her or talks about her, she's even
closer. I believe that. It's comforting to think my Mom is just a breath away.
This week, my mind's eye treated me to a series of vignettes depicting moments I shared with my Mom. Most of them were childhood repeats, oldies but goodies. I was the protagonist, of course. My Mom played a supporting role and there were a few bit parts for family and friends. They all took place in the house where I grew up. An old place that cost my Grandmother fifty dollars. After the purchase, she had it pulled down the hill on a flatbed by a team of horses to its new dirt basement in the valley. My Mom was just three years old then. Grandpa used lumber from an old haunted house to build the kitchen, livingroom and three bedrooms. The eight of them lived in the dirt basement until it was finished. My Mom was seven years old when they finally moved upstairs. It was fancy enough in its day with gas lamps and indoor plumbing. Oddly enough, one of the vignettes I had the pleasure of viewing took place in the bathroom.
Mom would fill the old claw tub with hot water and lots of bubbles. She would sit with me while I languished in the depths and we'd talk or she'd watch me play and just unwind quietly from a long day. Then she'd pull the plug and I'd sit and watch my dirt swirl down the drain. On one occasion as I witnessed my weekly sins circling, I asked her, "Mom, is there a God?" She was quiet a moment and replied, "There's a God if you need there to be a God." Then she wrapped me up in a towel, lifted me out of the tub and cradled me on her lap, rubbing me briskly to dry me off. When I was sufficiently dried, she lifted up my left arm and strummed my rib cage with her fingers like I was an old banjo. We both laughed. Later, as an adult, when I felt like my life was circling the drain, her words echoed in my mind. She was right, there is a God when you need one.
Mom did her best to give me some religious foundation. When my regular attendance at Sunday School waned she gave me the guidance to know right from wrong. Eventually, we had a discussion about the four letter 'F' word. She was not in favor of the way that word was bandied about and abused. As a pre-teen, I was keen to experiment with letting it roll off my tongue. She suggested I look the word up in our unabridged dictionary. It was a tome at least eight inches thick and had a place in our home on top of the hinged bench that my brother made in high school shop class. I hoisted it onto the livingroom floor, hooked my index finger in the DEF tab and began my search. When I found it in those pages the word was instantly robbed of its shock value. After all, any curse word worth its merit shouldn't be defined in a dictionary. That day I learned that the 'F' word is an acronym for the phrase; For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. This took some of the steam out of my desire to use it. I'm proud to say that my Mom, to my knowledge, never let that word cross her lips. Sadly, even armed with the real meaning of the word, those near and dear will not be able to say the same of me.
Mom wasn't a saint by any means and had her vices. She smoked cigarettes until I was in grade six. I think my interest in the habit might have been the catalyst to her reform. My friend Betsy and I, when we could afford to, bought Craven M's at the local corner store. In leaner times we stole my Uncle John's Export A's. They weren't filter tipped, so we would snitch two at a time, cut them in half and store them in the toy fridge in the basement. When the time was right, we'd sneak downstairs and smoke them with the window wide open. Mom always had a keen sense of smell and one day as we wafted by, she stopped us and asked if we'd been smoking. Neither one of us were good liars. So she sat both of us down and said, "I don't want you sneaking cigarettes or buying your own. If you want to smoke, just ask me and I'll give you one." Betsy and I thought this was the best gig ever and took advantage of it. Sometimes Mom would even sit and have a cigarette with us. But it didn't take long before the novelty wore off and we lost the desire for a cigarette. The two of us were the only kids in our group of friends who never picked up the habit. And I was the only one of my parent's three children who never smoked. I credit Mom for our avoidance of nicotine. She did us a favor. She knew what's not forbidden is usually forsaken. Lucky for us she never forgot what it was like to be a kid.
 |
| Mom & Me 1962 |
I was lucky to have such a terrific Mom all my growing up life. I had the kind of Mom every kid wanted. She played ball with us, took us swimming, baited our hooks when we went fishing, caught frogs with us, baked us cookies, rode a bike, laughed at our jokes and gave us her precious time. She was the best. This mental reel to reel was like gathering a bouquet of memories. Emma isn't as fortunate. Her time with her Mom was so short compared to my own. I guess it's up to those around her to help her remember her Mom and keep her close - to help Emma gather a bouquet of forget-me-nots.
The rest is pixie dust...
My parents were married on September 26, 1945 and although they always acknowledged the date somehow, I only remember going out for dinner once as a family to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. Mom wore a dress and jacket she had sewn and Dad wore his Sunday-go-to-Meetin' clothes which consisted of his cowboy boots, fresh shirt and pants, his bolero tie and horse-hide vest. The others in attendance were, Dad's sister Judy, my sister and her son, my two kids, their father and me. I can still see us trying to pose for photos out on the lawn after dinner. Dad had his fill at the Beefeater and shared what he thought about going out for dinner and 'paying those prices' when he could have as good, if not better, meal at home. I think that was intended as a compliment to my Mother's cooking but her glare and deaf ears were also part of her evening ensemble. My kids were getting tired, Aunt Judy might have been a few sheets to the wind and I was trying in vane not to be outshone by my sister. The photo was never frame-worthy but it's still a precious memory. Their fiftieth anniversary was a bit better.
On this date one year ago, I asked my Mom about her wedding day. This was all she could tell me. "It was sunny - we got married in St Barnabas church - we had an open house after the ceremony - we went to Lethbridge on the train for our honeymoon." She could only remember the high points, the details were lost. It made me wish I'd asked sooner or asked her to write it down when her memory could still be trusted. But I didn't, so all I have are the photos now, which are precious enough. My parents made a handsome couple; Dad with his movie star good looks and Mom with her tall willowy frame and million dollar smile. Two of her four brothers were groomsmen. John, on the left was the youngest and Walt, on the right was the second oldest. Mom's favorite brother, Tom had been killed in the war just eleven months before the wedding. I can only imagine the hole in her heart that his loss made that day. I don't know where her eldest brother Ed was. Mom always said he was a bit aloof. Mom's attendants were Sybil Taylor on the right and Annie Nikiel on the left. Sybil and Walt had dated at one time. Mom and Sybil became dear friends. Annie and Mom were neighbors growing up and friends all their lives. Annie was the last bridesmaid standing until this year. She passed away just three weeks after Mom. 
