Saturday, July 27, 2019
I am amazed that we are here today, because I can’t believe that my mother was actually mortal. Somehow, she was the most powerful person. She was like mythology. Speaking of mythology, who could forget that if we drank straight from the tap, we could get worms? If we laughed in the morning, we would cry at night? Bananas in the morning were gold, but lead before bed. Her tales proliferated like mushrooms. By the way, don’t touch those mushrooms from the lawn—they are probably poisonous. We looked up to her, but not to the eclipse, because we would go blind.
My mother had an unintentional humor. Remember when she saw the report on the cloistered nuns and asked, “How much do they not want?” My dad guffawed, and she enjoyed that. I wish I could remember some of the jokes she flubbed, because there was so much humor in the mistake in the telling, and that was fine with her. She gave us much to laugh about. She also told us that she could give us something to really cry about.
Mom was peculiar and compulsive. When I became an adult, I learned that nobody else washed their jeans every time they wore them, or laundered and rehung their drapes so frequently. “You could eat off my floors,” she used to say. I didn’t get it at the time. Who would want to eat off a floor? I remember how she would turn the glass doors in the cabinet because, she said, “Glass is a viscous solid. It flows downward.” She turned them for years. I was devastated years later to learn that this was a myth. Years and years of turning. Was it for nothing?
She was a runner in the 1970’s and 80’s, medaling and recounting that she had won first in her age group. She collected dolls, and appreciated every detail on every dress, dusting them off meticulously in her displays. Her own outfits were flawless, matching down to every detail, even for a trip to the supermarket. She read the label on every product in the cart, even though she probably needed a magnifying glass to do it. Did I mention she was half-blind but could spot a speck of dust across a room? She knew how she wanted things. If that dinner was cold, she was sending it back. Look out.
My mother’s passions were deep and secret. She took an art class and painted still lifes in browns and reds and dark greens. Then she put them away. She didn’t tell us much about her dad, but I can tell you that she loved him deeply even sixty years after his death. And her greatest passion? Her Billy, my dad. Only he knew all of her deep secrets. They doted on each other. He was crazy about her. My mother had a way of getting what she wanted, and now she has. She gets eternity with my father.
My mother was different from everyone in our family, and we could never figure any of her out. But she has become a part of each of us. She showed us to look at every close detail, to demand the best, to do our best, to love to the point of excess, and to have the strength to walk away from something that wasn’t good for us, to speak up for ourselves. She taught us to laugh by accident, and to make room for the myths. She taught us that sometimes the best thing about routines is that they can keep you from thinking about the bad stuff. She showed us it was okay to get lost in watching some TV.
Each day, she washed and folded the clothes and set them out in piles for us. “Take that upstairs,” she would say. Now, she gets to take it upstairs for her forever with my dad, free of secrets and pain, scented like Shalimar, and running her best time.
