An Anniversary Not Celebrated

Ten years.

I cannot believe it has been ten years since the morning of my mother’s passing.

Are there some Band-Aids that one simply cannot rip off but hopes and prays that the hurt underneath has healed? Does one try to catch a glimpse beneath that Band-Aid from time to time, hoping that the passage of time has done its job, that the wound is gone and that the scar has faded? That one day it will be okay to remove the bandage and know that the exposure won’t reinjure it?

I have left the bandage on for ten years. Today is the day to remove the dressings to check on the progress.

I’m not going to go so far back with my memories to childhood, because though Mom was an integral part of those memories, I shared her with three siblings that were close to my age, and three siblings that were older. My Mom certainly had her hands full when she and my stepdad merged families!

Mom had many interests. She was an artist whose works graced the Idaho Governor’s offices; her art was purchased by many who appreciated her talent. I have two of her paintings. One is of a wintery scene with a rustic cabin that is located at the end of a snow-covered path; the other is of a mountain lake that reflects the tree-covered hills and has a cloudy sky as a backdrop. Though most of her works were of landscapes, she dabbled with portraits a time or two. She painted a great likeness of my stepdad’s mother which they briefly hung in the hallway of her home, but it freaked out their little dog and had to be taken down. Mom was convinced the painting was possessed by Little Grammy’s spirit!

Mom tried her hand at gardening. I don’t remember much of what she planted; my most vivid memory stems from the day she discovered a snake in the garden while she was weeding. A shriek from her brought us all running. We saw this frantic madwoman wildly swinging a hoe at a wiggly something on the ground. The little garden snake didn’t stand a chance against my mom’s fear of all crawly things and that was the end of that venture. My brothers were left to dispose of the pieces and tend the garden for the rest of the growing season.

The final years of her life were defined by oxygen lines and wheelchairs, though it didn’t affect her cognitively. She was an avid reader. One of the trips I took up to Oregon was for the purpose of assisting with the disposition of books, specifically cookbooks. She could not resist the lure of a cookbook, so every yard sale and every thrift shop she and Dad frequented were fair game for finds to add to her collection. I don’t know how many she had; how many can be packed into over forty boxes? She was overwhelmed that her collection had grown and did not know where to start. I asked her if two shelves were an adequate space to house her favorites and after her acquiescence, we installed two shelves. Then we went through EVERY SINGLE BOOK, sorting each into a “Donate,” “Possible Keep,” and “Oh My Gosh, I Cannot Get Rid of This One!” pile. This astronomical task took several days, after which a book seller came in and made an acceptable offer for the ones she could let go of. Mom was both relieved and a bit sad at the space created by the removal of her passion.

Mom had so many interests that even though it seems as if my thoughts are scattered with this writing, it’s simply because I cannot decide which of them is surfacing next. Her love of crossword puzzles, though logic problems escaped her. Her cooking – fried macaroni, silly dumplings, and crazy cakes. Her baking and candy making – homemade candy canes and cherry suckers adorned our Christmas trees for many years. The smell of gingerbread still takes me back to those days. How she loved to play card games – pinochle, rummy, canasta, and of course solitaire, if nobody was around to engage. Her piano dexterity – she loved to have me sing along while she played! Dancing, before she lost her leg after an injury. Bird watching. Teacup poodles. Yard sales and thrift shops. Knitting – blankets were her thing though she once tried her hand at socks. I don’t think she considered that the yarn she chose would stretch so much after completion.

I guess the thing I miss most and the one quality I try to mimic is her spontaneity. Mom was the type of person that if something interested her, she would leap on it with passion, not giving up until she was satisfied with an outcome, even if it was an unexpected one. That is the kind of person I hope I have become, one who is not afraid to try new things, willing to dance as if nobody is watching. That’s the legacy I hope I leave for my children one day, this passion for life.

Mom, please know your own legacy has been passed on.