My Mom
Glen Miller: Big Band
Mom’s Are Wonderful People!
None of us would be here if it weren’t for moms. Those of us whose moms are gone miss them dearly. Just browse the social media postings for May 10, 2020, and you’ll see what I mean. One Facebook friend posted today that she kept a voicemail of her mom’s last message for years just so she could listen to her voice and wouldn’t forget what she sounded like.
A Sentimental Deja Vu
About six years ago I went to my hometown in Texas for a high school class reunion. It was a memorable trip for several reasons. First, I got to see my classmates who I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Also, I made a special trip to the cemetery where my mom was buried. A bit of information before I reveal the last reason.
Before I left Portland I googled my hometown to see if my old house was still there. Technology always amazes me. Just saying, this had been over half a century since I lived in the house. I looked at an aerial view of the neighborhood, zoomed in, and there it was, my old house. After all the parties and reminiscing with my classmates, I went on my “memory” tour. There was a for sale sign in the yard of my old house, and I contacted the real estate agent to see if I could visit the house, explaining that I had lived there. The house was occupied. I knocked on the door, introduced myself, and asked if I could come in. As it turned out, I found out later that the woman who lived there knew my younger sister from their school days. I should interject, if it weren’t for Texas overwhelming friendliness, this might not have worked. Don’t try it in New York City.
Think of one of those movies where the protagonist, say Benjamin (Dustin Hoffman) in The Graduate, is attending his graduation party, a pool party. He makes his grand entrance dressed in his scuba gear (presumably a graduation present), the sound of his breathing amplified by the face mask. Not sure why that scene compares to my hometown experience, but think about how you might react in my situation. I hadn’t been in this house for over 50 years. The fact that it was still standing amazed me. Except for different furnishings, it was the same house. I walked through the living room into the kitchen. This was the kitchen where my mom fixed meals for the family. Slight changes, cabinets had been updated and some new appliances, but otherwise the exact spot where mom fixed all those Sunday dinners (usually roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans), tapioca pudding, which I loved, and peanut butter cookies, also a favorite. In the next room was the dining room. In those days, families sat at a table and had their meals. Truthfully, I don’t remember conversation topics.
Continuing, we headed up the stairs. Indelibly imprinted in my mind is the cat on the stairway as we ascended, looking up with a puzzled expression (who is this unknown person in my house?). At the top was a bedroom two of my sisters shared and down a long hallway past a walk-in attic was the bedroom my brother and I shared. The whole time I was taking pictures, having gotten permission from the owners. I know, as I’ve implied, kind of surreal. My old bedroom was more or less the same – this was the same bedroom with the repainted ceiling, repainted because the lab experiment with my chemistry set (Christmas present) was literally a bust. Anyway, after the tour I thanked the owner and made my exit.
This was the most important reason for my visit – my mom’s presence was felt in that old house, and I’m so glad I returned. I don’t know what else to say, but here’s an exact quote from one of my mom’s letters, obviously a very personal thing to share, but it seemed important to say it. The letter was addressed to my aunt whose husband had just died.
Dearest (Aunt’s name),
How are you? I’m so ashamed of myself for not writing or calling. I think of you many times a day and pray that you are adjusting to your aloneness. No one can know what you are going through until they have experienced the loss of their loved one. I do feel that you and (uncle’s name) had something within your own lives that few, few married people ever find. It seems ironical that mortals cannot express themselves naturally and freely. I have never learned to show or let others know how I feel.
My mom’s given names were Jessie Helen Elizabeth.
blazinbernie
Looking for a Rufous 