See, Mom was always the one taking the pix at family gatherings and celebrations, so if we have her in the photos at all, it’s usually her thumb that was accidentally planted in front of the lens. When one of us caught her on film, there was a better than even chance that we’d cut half her face off, jiggle her out of focus, or have crummy timing and get her just as she made a goofy face and spoiled the effect. We have a lot of those goofy ones …
Doesn’t matter. Mom tended to leave an impression, so having pix to back up my very vivid memories would just be icing on the cake.
When she was a young woman, she was a ringer for actress Ava Gardner. Dad used to regale us with stories about taking her to some of the hot night clubs in Chicago and watching people try to cozy up to her with free drinks and show tickets in hopes of meeting other “stars.” Did Mom point out their errors? Heavens, no! She loved playing the part!
Mom had a rapier wit, too, and it sliced through conventions and pretensions with equal ease. When the show “Maude” was popular, people used to swear that Bea Arthur’s character was based on Mom. New friends often slipped and called her “Maude,” the similarities were so uncanny! Mom being the same sort of statuesque presence as Bea Arthur only added to the connection.
Even though she recognized the foibles of friends and family, Mom was fiercely loyal. She never hesitated to help if someone she loved needed her to back their play.
And, oh! Could Mom throw a party! There were huge, hilarious parties for St. Paddy’s Day, Hallowe’en, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. After we moved to Florida, friends planned their vacations around those parties, and the new friends blended so well with the old that you couldn’t tell the difference.
Mom was artistic, and used to draw goofy caricatures on notepads scattered around the house. Why she never ventured far from being a keypunch operator, I’ll never know. She and Dad were both gifted sketchers, and Tracie is, too. Me? I can barely draw my name.
Mom was creative in so many ways: Tracie and I both have beautifully hand-knit sweaters, and afghans and bedspreads of broomstick lace. I can’t remember a time when Mom wasn’t knitting nail polish covers in the shape of poodles, or liquor bottle covers in the shape of pink elephants with floppy felt ears. She liked fun, kitchy things. There isn’t a friend or relative who doesn’t remember the first pair of pom-pom slippers or mop slippers she made for them (well, OK, the guys didn’t get the frills, but they got the slippers).
Tracie still has the riding habits Mom made for her, and I have a Garfield Christmas wreath and one with teddy bears that Mom designed when she had her floral shop up in Kentucky.
Mom had a flair for interior design and created striking rooms with almost nothing to work with. Friends never knew what to expect if they went a few years between visits, but they always went home inspired.
It wasn’t all sweetness and light, though. Nothing ever is.
Early on, Mom learned that she needed to be able to stand on her own two feet, and that colored the way she let people into her world. She delighted in her relationships, but if something really serious was going on in her own life, you’d never know it till it was over.
So when she learned she had cancer, she kept it from everyone for as long as she could, and when she had to share her diagnosis, it was only with family.
In her last year, she went back to Illinois in 1990 to attend her 40 year high school reunion. She wanted to see her old friends one last time, but she never let on to them that she was ill. In fact, in the class photo, she’s the picture of health and humor. She looks much younger than her years, and that Ava Gardner look-alike thing is goin’ on, too. And I know that she took to heart the words of Joni Mitchell’s song, “Both Sides Now”: You leave them laughing, when you go … don’t give yourself away.
Well, Mom didn’t give her secret away, but all her life, with her laughter, her friendship, her creative flair, and her love, she gave enough of herself away to fill three lifetimes.
And still, it’s not enough.
Mom died in March of 1991, and the night before Mother’s Day that year, I wrote this poem in her memory. I wish I’d written for my mother while she was still here to read it.
(the Mom poem)
I hold your life in my hands:
small squares of time, caught out of context.
“Picture this! “ they say, tempting me to remember,
and I do.
I remember a chubby baby’s face,
caught in heavy sepia tones:
my twin, ‘though of another generation.
Years later,
Fujicolor would reveal our only real differences
in auburn hair
and emerald eyes
that I loved too well to envy.
An Ava Gardner look-alike,
who looked at me with a mommy’s eyes.
Emerald eyes
that cried when I hurt
and sparked with a humor that never faltered.
I remember a strong-willed woman
holding a family together amid shattering dreams,
emerald eyes that grew jaded,
and a humor that colored your pain.
And I remember loving you
(‘though God knows liking you came hard!)
The two of us, strong-willed women
with nothing but a shade of hair and hue of eye to separate us.
That, and a lifetime of differing opinions.
And I remember holding your life in my hands
watching the light fade from your emerald eyes
And I’d give what’s left of life
to have more than their memory
and small squares of your life
to hold in my hands.
We miss you, mom.
