Remembering Mom: October 10, 1925 to December 29, 2015
My mother was a constant traveler, but not in the traditional sense. All day long, she traveled from her stove to her refrigerator to her sink, and then back again.
“Stove-refrigerator-sink,” she once described her three-step life to me matter-of-factly. She loved the normalcy, the predictability and the routine — most of the time. But sometimes, when she was irritated with her children, her husband, or a church parishioner, she would break her sour mood and look afar, her eyes penetrating the kitchen walls. Her longing gaze belonged to someone standing on a community theater stage, hungry for a Carnegie Hall audience.
I didn’t pay much attention, if any at all, because her expression was too painful. The reality of her life washed out any grandeur dreams she had, such as crunching numbers in an accountant firm, one of her long-standing dreams.
That was the thing with my mom: her frustrations, disappointments and inner pain often led her to be emotionally wound up, but if you could step back and let her unravel, she would eventually find her equilibrium. It took me a long time to figure out her usual modus operandi, but when I finally did, I was able to love her fully.
Before I gained a wider, wiser perspective, adolescence was particularly rough. I had yearned for a different mother, one who wore dainty tennis skirts and crisp white sneakers, and who had a feminine sway in her hips. A mother who would come to pick me up from middle school in her shiny Ford Mustang, instead of the one kid whose mother was never there.
My mom (or dad) never stepped inside my middle school until my graduation day. (Grammar school was another matter, but that’s another story.) When I saw them, I hid behind a corner in the hallway, trying to catch my breath outside the suffocating layers of shame that had been dumped on me like stinky sludge.
Even though my dad blended in with the crowd, all I could see from my vantage point was my mom, standing there in her multi-colored dress, a tent-like garb that concealed her petite body and was as baggy as a beekeeper’s protective suit.
Her kitty heels, straight out of a 50s black-and-white TV show, clicked on the tiled floor as she paced nervously back and forth.
A hairnet captured her dark, old-fashioned ringlets, like bait worms. Her face was an expressionless doll with vacant eyes.
“Is your family here?”
“No.”
“Without family,” I felt different growing up. But I learned that while Hollywood love may be custom-made, ordinary love is not.
As I mentioned earlier, my love for my mother matured with me — especially after my young children taught me how genuinely unique and fun she was. It was then that I also fully understood why my mom rarely spoke to “Americans,” silenced by the embarrassment of her own foreign accent and awkwardness.
The upshot of the realization was that I walked tall next to her, my head held high, despite her size 4 Barbie body hidden in size 12 dresses, the unconcealed sheets of tissues lining her shoes, and the stale bread slices stashed in her purse’s side pockets (in case the food chain failed!).
My bulletproof mother didn’t believe in illness, and her passing from a stroke on December 29, 2015, showed me the perfect irony of life: we’re not in control after all.
When my mom fell ill in the spring and early summer of 2015, I felt bewildered and flummoxed (love that word!). In the process of her deterioration, I did the “next right thing,” as my program had taught me to do many years prior. Her gradual decline was a roller coaster that I became so used to and for nearly seven months, it felt like tying my shoe in the morning. But the exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced, even when I got eight or ten hours of sleep. I was groggy, walking a foot behind everything that moved in my world.
When my mom landed in a nursing home, a feeding tube had been inserted into her, and it was clear she would never return to her three-step appliance shuffle, but the regular rhythms of our lives, like playing rock-paper-scissors, remained in my memory, like the whiff of Pond’s cream on her face that warmed my childhood particularly on bitter cold evenings. She had taught me well, and I went on with my old life, with familiar music playing in the background.
Three weeks before Christmas, my own “rock-paper-scissors” household routine escalated. I was a single mom and had to work, write and send holiday cards, purchase and package holiday gifts, not to mention cook and clean. I rationalized that since she was semi-conscious, she wouldn’t notice the stretch of time since I had last seen her. I certainly planned to visit after the holiday. Of course, after the holidays seemed just as frantic too, and I was driving my daughter to Massachusetts to visit a prospective graduate school. I figured once we accomplished our mission, I’d definitely see Mom again, the first week of the new year.
Unfortunately, Mom never lived to see 2016. But on December 28, in Massachusetts, my daughter and I had a terrible time finding appropriate lodging, since the first hotel room we had reserved was a dump. Luckily, we found mediocre accommodations just in time, because a terrible ice storm had made the outdoors look frozen in time.
That night, two weary travelers collapsed into bed and slumber found us easily. I opened my eyes at 5 a.m. to see the digital clock glowing in the dark room. I also knew without doubt: Mom had passed.
Her presence filled the room, every bit of her, including her lingering scent of Ponds face cream. I realized that instead of my visiting her, she had come to visit us one last time to let us know that she was okay.
Sure enough, I woke up to hear the news over the phone.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can say. You taught me about faith, love, and even the power of love to transcend time and space. I’m grateful for the gift of your life.
My mom spent decades reading the obituaries, and the memoriam section, in the local daily newspaper with a keen eye, curious about what made each person unique and how their story was woven together. It were as if she tried to make sense of the world by connecting the dots between people’s lives.
My mom alerted me to anything she found interesting in that particular newspaper section, and we would end up discussing the deceased stranger and how, for example, she had outlived three deceased husbands. Or, as another example, how another deceased stranger traveled to every continent three times. Every time we reflected on these strangers, it felt like delicious gossip. Through these obituaries, and the occasional memoriam, we were able to appreciate the stories of strangers who had passed away and reflect on our own lives in the process. Paradoxically, reading and sharing our insights about the deceased kept mom and me alive!
While some may find delving into obituaries morbid and sad, in my solitude, I find it an opportunity to examine a few dozen strangers’ lives while I reunite with my mom, sync with her vibrant emotional range, and inhale her Pond’s facial cream, which she wore every night of her life. The memoriam to Mary Jane that I read earlier this year would have really lit up her world.
MARY JANE. MEMORIAM To Mary Jane It was late in the morning, It was early in spring, When I took that picture, Of you on the swing. It was so long ago, It was just yesterday, The years go so quickly, The time slips away. We should have returned, At least once a year, But we never came back, Now alone I stand here. The swing is long gone, From the top of this hill, But that doesn’t matter, For I see it still. I still hear your laughter, Feel the touch of your hand, And although that is true, Where ever I am. It was here at that time, In this place that we knew, What we had was forever, It was true then, it is still true. Rest in peace my love. Ed
One reader’s response to the memoriam, stated, “So very sweet and heartfelt. I do not know Mary Jane or Ed … but that was beautiful and I’m sure Mary Jane is pleased.”
Yes, I agreed fully. I could easily picture Mary Jane swinging in heaven somewhere on her swing, carefree and forever young and in love.
Memories can be a balm for grief. We hear the laughter, the excitement, and feel the fluid joints and hefty muscles of youth. Ponds-scented memories are like a warm blanket that wraps us up and protects us from the cold world, whispering, “Have faith. You are safe. Alone, but safe.”
They are reunion celebrations where love and faith reign supreme. Faith that we are never truly alone. Faith that there is more to life than what meets the eye.
Mary Jane is pleased. And if Mom gets to share her swing, she will be pleased too.
Her comment made me think not only about Harry, but also about my dad, whose birthday was yesterday. He passed away in 2000, but if he had lived, he would have turned 119! After thinking about my dad, his barber, Tony, came to mind, because it occurred to me how he also fit into the “best generation” league.
I’ve mentioned before that even though my dad didn’t have a formal education under his belt, he was the smartest man I ever knew. Wise beyond words. He always told me that I would understand things long after he was gone, and he was right. Between my personal grief and my entrance into the final chapter of life, my perception has widened, and it feels as if I am comprehending the world in a deeper, wiser way, just as my father had said I would one day. That being said, as I pondered these old-timers, a realization dawned on me about Tony, but before I go into that, I have to give a bit of a background.
My clean-shaven dad was also a hair fanatic. He never lost his hair, but, instead, it seemed like someone had poured Miracle-Gro into it. Ninety percent of the time, or maybe even more, his barber Tony gave him a number 2 buzz cut. The other cuts were Marine flat top cuts that made him look as if a runaway lawn mower had zipped over the top of his head. My dad didn’t ask for that style specifically, but I think Tony gave him the style just to break things up and make things interesting.
Whenever my dad took my young son to the barbershop in his old jalopy, he always got the same type of number 2 buzz cut for him. I’m sure his grandfather’s (Gido’s) influence led my son to continue the tradition of the number two buzz cut after adolescence, which he cut himself to save money.
Gido was frugal too, actually cheap. He never gave Tony more than three dollars cash for a haircut. My dad had decided that was what his haircut was worth, regardless of inflation. Period. No tip. No nothing. No raise either, even after 20 years, maybe more, of going to Tony’s on a weekly basis.
Before my dad died of emphysema, he was frequently admitted into the ER and then the hospital. There was no time for his traditional buzz cut even though in less than a month’s time, his wired hair stood up and performed endless rows of jumping jacks.
I always picture his team of nurses, running their fingers through his pure white hair, saying, “Your hair is beautiful.”
To my dad, though, his hair was a mess, out of control and unruly. Every time we were about to call Tony to come and cut my dad’s hair, a medical crisis interrupted our plan. Stubborn Dad wouldn’t let anyone else cut into his white mane, no matter how high the strands stood in attention.
It wasn’t until after my dad died that we called Tony to cut his hair one last time. We did it in honor of our dad, who was so adamant about his clean-shaven face and buzz cuts. How could we allow mourners to come and see him in his open casket when his hair was the opposite of what he, and everyone else, loved?
I was so wrapped up in the wake and funeral and losing my dad that I never formally thanked Tony, nor had I seen him ever since. But suddenly, after reading Karla’s comments about how we are losing the best generation, it brought to mind my dad and then Tony, and I started to see the light, wondering how it must have felt for Tony to leave his barbershop, tools in hand, travel to a funeral home and approach the casket where my dad was laid out in his best suit, which he had bought for the occasion long before he was even ill.
I’m sure there were plenty of plugs in the wall to connect his shaver, because even though my dad had always shaved himself, Tony was willing to do it. In addition, his hands must have been shaking as he held his scissors. Sure, he could do a buzz cut in his sleep, but how could he concentrate on doing it on a corpse? Had he even seen a corpse before? Additionally, how could he focus on the task at hand when burdened with grief? Looking at my dad’s face must have flooded him with two decades of memories, recalling the curmudgeon of a man he loved unconditionally despite his cheapness. My dad was the only customer who got away with paying three dollars for a haircut during all those years, while the barber still gave him a smile and a lollipop for his grandson.
It wasn’t about money or the bottom line. The bottom line back then was about humanity, humility, and never bottoming out of character while holding onto dignity, doing the virtuous thing even if it felt morbid. They were men of faith who had faith and hope in simple things like hard work and doing the right thing.
It’s easy to picture my dad, Tony, and Harry, too. Members of the best generation that you could count on because they made you feel like you counted. We ARE losing the men and women of the best generation, but their legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew them.
Thank you, Tony, your act of kindness and compassion in giving my dad one last buzz cut is a reminder of the power of human connection, even in death. You reminded me of the importance of doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty in the world, even in the midst of sorrow.
Thank you, Dad, for teaching me how age widens perception, like a zoomable flashlight, and helps us to see not only the dirt and debris in life, but also the fairy dust.
The chilly fall air nipped at my cheeks as I rolled the garbage receptacle down the driveway to the street for the next day’s pickup.
“Meow! Meow!”
I scanned the landscape, looking for the source of the sound that had strummed my heartstrings. There, in the bushes, was a partially white, tiger-faced kitten. She was small and fluffy, but appeared well fed and reminded me of a powder puff. Next thing you know, she vanished and in case she had not a home, I left a dish of cat food for her across the way. Over the course of the following months, I assumed someone owned her since I only saw her a couple times more.
Fast forward to about a month ago, and I officially discovered “Tuna’s” story shortly after she reappeared at my house. Her feral mom had birthed Tuna, along with her four brothers and sisters under my neighbor’s shed. A few compassionate neighbors cared for the cat and her litter while a cat rescue charity had become involved trying to trap, spay, neuter and place the kitties for adoption.
Gazing into Tuna’s eyes, I felt crushed. I could tell that she was familiar with hunger, homelessness and fear. She had to hide from the pack of blood-thirsty coyotes that prowled around at night. She had never known what a human touch felt like, or a warm bed and blanket. She had only slept on hard, mud-packed ground infested with bugs. I wondered if she even knew how to purr. If I got too close, her meows would turn into low, threatening hisses.
I couldn’t help but wonder why some animals and people are born into such difficult circumstances, while others are born into privilege. The question weighed on me like an indigestible lump of sausage in my stomach. Needless to say, I became attached to Tuna and her family and tried to help as best as I could by doing things like checking to see if any of the felines were captured in the cage that had been set by the rescue group.
After I got involved, three weeks later, Tuna and her family disappeared. Our neighborhood cat watch party feared the worst. We searched for them everywhere, but we couldn’t find them.
Another week went by, and we received some good news. The feline family had relocated to a different area of the neighborhood, where they took shelter under another neighbor’s shed. I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured that they’re doing well. The rescue group is still trying to trap and rescue them, and I’m hopeful that they’ll be able to do so soon.
I was glad that Tuna and her family were safe, but I couldn’t help but think about all the other animals and people who were living in difficult circumstances.The question was one I didn’t have the answer to, but the mere thought of it triggered a flood of memories deep inside.
It all started when I got into my car in the parking lot after a rather extensive grocery shopping trip, feeling particularly exhausted.
When I started it up, a familiar song, “Fast Car,” on a random top-hits radio station caught my attention. It was Luke Combs’ remake of Tracy Chapman’s iconic 1988 hit “Fast Car.” Combs’ version had just hit the top of Billboard’s Country Airplay chart a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t paid close attention to it. I had listened to Tracy’s version countless times back in the ’80s, though.
Combs’ version is a faithful cover of the original, but he brings his own unique style to it. His voice is deeper and more soulful than Chapman’s, and he adds a bit of a country twang. The result is a powerful and emotional rendition of the song.
Little did I realize Luke Combs is the oversized, rust-colored bearded version of my beloved son, Marshall
The lyrics of the song caught me off guard that day. Instead of bolting out of the parking lot, I sank into the driver’s seat, wet from nostalgic tears. I recalled someone, around 15, with dirty blonde, long, wavy hair, flying like a bed sheet drying on a clothesline, outside of an oversized, open 1956 Ford Crown Victoria window.
“Lucy” was what Mac called me back then (and “Lug Nuts,” but that’s another story). He was the one piloting the Crown Vic. Probably one of my only true friends in high school, he sat grinning at my antics, his smile as bright as the perfectly white steering wheel of the car he had lovingly restored. We roared down the road, singing along to the radio as it blasted.
Our favorite song was Rufus & Chaka Khan’s “Tell Me Something Good.” So picture this: Mac would slow the car and pull over to an innocent pedestrian, and I would stretch my body like a piece of taffy and rocket out of the Crown Vic, belting the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
“Your problem is you ain’t been loved like you should What I got to give will sure ‘nough do you good Tell me something good (Tell me, tell me, tell me) Tell me that you love me, yeah”
Luckily, no one took offense or took us seriously, regardless of their gender or age. (I think I really gave a much-needed adrenaline rush to some of the older guys’ egos, though!)
I had often thought back to those cruising days with Mac, but I never truly understood their poignant meaning until I broke down in tears while listening to Combs’ lyrics. For the first time ever, I had an epiphany: Mac had a fast car and I felt like I belonged! We also crossed the invisible line that separated our suburban neighborhood from the city (“Won’t have to drive too far, Just across the border and into the city.”)
Here are the lyrics that transported me back to those many afternoons spent in Mac’s Crown Vic, a visceral realm where I could relive the memories of those days and understand why they mattered so much:
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I do believe that these two words are some of the most powerful words in human history: I belonged.
Listening to the song’s lyrics about poverty and hardship resonated with me in that moment.
That being said, I was the kid who got kicked out of sixth grade for asking too many questions, but over the years I knew him, I only asked Mac once about his estranged dad.
You see, Mac’s mom was a single mother of five other children. Only one sister was his biological sister; the rest were half-siblings from his mom’s other relationships. They lived in a dangerous, impoverished neighborhood of the city that we loved to cruise through, naïve as we were.
“I don’t know him.” Mac said, his voice flat and emotionless when I had asked him about his father. But the deep-rooted pain in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. It was the kind of pain you can detect in a feral cat’s eyes. The kind I detected in Tuna. Decades ago, like Tuna, I too wondered why Mac’s mom was forced to live in a ransacked two-room apartment with her children.
(At one point, Tuna was safely trapped, but her cage was accidentally unhinged and she escaped the animal rescue efforts!)
Once, in fact, Mac and I had just pulled up to visit his mom and siblings when a white van pulled in. There he was, Jack or John (Mack whispered his inaudible name under his breath) as he hopped out onto the asphalt, his face hidden under dark sunglasses and wearing an inconspicuous pair of jeans and t-shirt, pounding the pavement in a pair of new work boots.
Mac and I sat in the Crown Vic like two upright light bulbs without a fixture. Once Jack or John disappeared into the ransacked apartment building, we drove away. I did not ask questions.The only question that mattered to me was, “How much more hurt could Mac take?”
As it stood, Mac lived with his aunt, who had escaped poverty against all odds to live in suburbia. She managed to just get by on government assistance along with wages from odd jobs. The single mom and her six children lived in a small, rundown house that was once a meat store. She may have narrowly escaped poverty, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the judgment of the “Fat Cats” of our town, who frowned upon the welfare-enabled “feral cats.”
Mac was the eighth resident in the tiny place. He was happy to pay rent, even though he had to sleep on a five-foot slab cot on the floor. He did it to go to our high school, where I had met him. Apparently, it was a lot better than getting bullied and beaten up at his previous high school in the city where he grew up.
From the moment I met him, the student who had been held back three times in school would proudly proclaim, “I’m a grease monkey!” and emphasize the point by bouncing in his chunky, five-inch, shiny black platform shoes down the hallways of our high school.
The second the final school bell rang, he whipped out of school in his Crown Vic in order to get to the service station where he worked as a self-taught mechanic. Although he paid rent to his aunt, whether out of guilt for abandoning his family or out of simple necessity, Mac gave most of his money to his mother. Between Mac’s money and her work as a caterer, his mother managed to obtain her nursing degree, and it looked like the cycle of poverty was about to be broken. It did, for a while.
Going into her second year of nursing, his mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer and died within three months. The other fathers of her children stepped up and took on their responsibilities. There was no room on Mac’s cot, and his sister was left to fend for herself and moved in with a friend. Mac grieved, and he did it over beers at a club in his native city that was notorious for allowing minors to drink alcohol. Then one day, one of the fat cat bullies lit his pants on fire. Fortunately, he was able to extinguish the flames, but he drank alone after that incident.
So there I sat in the grocery store’s parking lot, feeling the wind embrace me once again as I remembered how I nearly tumbled out of Mac’s Crown Victoria as I serenaded my audience in a notoriously unsavory neighborhood. As day turned into night, I would slide down the seat and snuggle up to Mac. He ignited my fire, and he never extinguished it—most of the world had done that at the time, kicking off the lifelong theme of my life.
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I was no longer too fat, too thin, too zany, too quiet, too foreign, too dumb, too smart, or too much — I simply belonged in our own private classic-car world like a well-worn robe that had lost half of its original weight.
After we graduated from high school, our Crown Vic cruises became a thing of the past. I would see him sporadically, but he was a recluse. Although he did show up for our 20th high school reunion, he ended up holing himself up in a cheap hotel instead of coming to the party, despite my pleas.
Years later, after fighting his own demons, it seemed he had turned a corner. He had married, had children, and became a successful business owner. It was the life he deserved. But then things turned again. At 45 years old, he finally came out, claiming his true authenticity. I was devastated to learn, he died two years later from AIDS complications. I felt a deep sense of grief, because I had lost a dear friend and a part of my own history.
Wiping the last of my tears, I finally pulled out of the parking lot. I couldn’t help but ponder on the bad luck and bad fate that seemed to follow people like Mac, like feral cats in a world of fat cats.
Throughout my life, I have been passionate about animal rescue. My friends know that they will never win an argument with me about buying bred pets, and I have opened my heart and home to numerous rescue cats and one dog, Crouton. On the other hand, I don’t know what kind of influence I had on Mac, but I know he rescued me in ways I can’t even explain. He certainly gave me faith when I had none.
Decades later, sometimes when the days feel long and dark and static, I remember Mac’s indigo tiny slits of eyes lighting up like fireflies. Like the headlights of a classic Crown Vic, they illuminate the path, guiding me through the darkness.
In the same vein as my recent blog post, Bow-Tie Breakthrough, I clearly remember the first ominous sign that things were about to change in the idyllic world of my poetic imagination.
While making my way towards the entrance of a now-defunct men’s clothing store in our hometown, I found myself juggling my toddler daughter and son. As I approached the main door, a seemingly healthy and muscular man in his thirties made no effort to move out of our path or open the door for us. He stood there resolutely, with an air of entitlement reminiscent of a lamppost that compelled me to turn sideways to gain entry into the establishment.
Initially perplexed by this behavior, anger was not an emotion that suited my state at that moment. Nonetheless, as I ruminated on this incident later that day, I became incensed trying to fathom why someone who appeared physically capable would not extend even so much as common courtesy towards a young mother by simply stepping aside or opening the door for her!
Fast forward through the decades, and the nameless man who refused to open the door of the onetime men’s store somehow opened the door on a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world like an old-fashioned hobo sneaking aboard a caboose on a train.
One example of the insidious adversary, far from appearing as a hobo, who presented herself as an affluent and entitled middle-aged woman at a grocery store a few years later, refused to allow me to go ahead of her at the bottle return — although she had about thirty bottles while I only had two. Was this justifiable?
Another incident, soon after, involved a parent-teacher conference that was divided into fifteen-minute intervals, the entitled couple in our well-heeled suburb that preceded my ex-husband and me consumed ten minutes of our allotted time as we waited patiently. Why did they do this? We were perplexed as we assumed that each pair would receive their full fifteen minutes. However, when it came to our turn, we were granted merely five minutes before being hastily dismissed from the premises. (Thankfully, there were no significant matters to address concerning our son; otherwise, we would have insisted on utilizing the entire duration allocated to us.)
As previously mentioned, my ex-husband frequently voiced his favorite adage: “Don’t expect anything and you won’t be disappointed.”
The first time I heard him say it, I was stunned but did not allow the sword of an idea to penetrate my idyllic world of my poetic imagination — until a certain and final act of self-centered conduct shattered it.
I think the day I woke up to smell the coffee, as my dear friend Bruce had often suggested during my youthful and carefree years, I stepped into insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). It was the day when I met head-on the selfish act of my ex-husband’s aunt, which I’ve already elaborated on in previous blog posts. The day she felt entitled and justified to close the door on me and my daughter’s soul by shutting us out and declining our plea for moral support following our firsthand experience with tragedy after having already endured countless hardships.
I suppose it is the day when I lost faith in people, but in the subsequent years that followed, remarkably, gained it in myself. Instead of plummeting down, I rose up into a place of acceptance and peace, not to mention a deeper realization of gratitude.
Fast forward to about a month ago when I was driving one evening and noticed headlights flashing behind me. Despite this, I chose to ignore what I assumed was another adversary poised to disrupt my existence. However, the vehicle pulled up next to me and revealed a male and a female inside. Even so, I pretended not to see them as I did not want any kind of altercation for something unknown or unintentional on my part. After spending over a minute attempting to grab my attention without success, they eventually gave up and drove away — much to my relief. It wasn’t until later that I realized they were trying to signal me that my car lights were carelessly turned off.
Following this incident, it saddened me how one would expect strangers only pose threats rather than good deeds; however, it served as an example of how Richard’s statement in Bow-Tie Breakthrough, rings true for me: “This is not my world anymore.”
Collectively, the abrasive experiences, though, have not led me to abandon the use of affirmations or positive thinking techniques, but rather opt to exercise prudence and safeguard myself. In essence, I am embracing a universal truth that many already acknowledge — Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. I joke around to my friends and say if I have grandchildren, I will teach them all about Darwin’s theory first and foremost.
My late brother Mike, who was a highly decorated Vietnam Veteran, and whom I’ve frequently written about, categorized people into two groups: draft dodgers or non-draft dodgers. War aside, when you truly contemplate it, who would risk their own life for others? Although my brother did so himself, I doubt many people would do the same. I don’t know if I would!
As a matter of fact, (let’s go back to the topic of war for a moment), only recently did I learn about the Confederate conscription law during the Civil War that allowed draftees to hire someone exempt from the draft to replace them — this could be someone under or over the mandatory conscription age or one whose trade or profession exempted him; even foreign nationals were eligible. The fee was $300 and obviously only affordable to those with wealth, such as Andrew Carnegie, one of the richest Americans in history (In fact, I read about the Confederate conscription law in Carnegie’s Maid by Marie Benedict, but that’s another story!). Many casualties were substitutes who tended to be young men aged 18 or 19 years — old enough to serve but too young to be drafted — representing some of society’s most vulnerable including Irish citizens seeking “a better life.” This all helped me understand why my father warned me about those hiding behind privilege and degrees since it is simple for such individuals to manipulate their way ahead without any regard for morality or ethics.
However, there is an upside midst all this downside …
Soul! Seriously.
The essence of our being transcends the hustle and bustle of commerce in the world, enabling us to reconnect with our inner selves. Furthermore, the part that connects us to something bigger than ourselves — you can call it Good Orderly Direction. It is what gives us purpose, meaning and fulfillment in life. And among all the negativity and manipulation that can come with the Darwin-versed modern world, privilege and degrees, it is our soul that can keep us grounded and true to our values.
When we focus on nurturing our soul, we become more resilient to the challenges that come with what we deem as success. We are able to stay humble and grateful for what we have (or think we have) achieved, rather than becoming arrogant or entitled. We are also more likely to use our presumed success for good, using our resources and influence to make a positive impact on the world around us — and sometimes all that it means is opening the door for another!
So while it may be easy for those with privilege, as well as those who feel entitled to dominate and manipulate their way ahead, it is ultimately their soul (or lack thereof) that will determine their true success in life. As my father warned me, never underestimate the power of a strong moral compass and a well-nurtured soul.
“Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” My mom’s heavily accented voice exclaimed every time she spotted a yellow flower or garment.
I distinctly remember that when she accompanied our family, regardless of how preoccupied we were with our daily tasks, such as running errands, her outburst would cause us to pause in our tracks, focus on, for example, yellow roses and transcend ourselves in order to appreciate their beauty.
My mom sounded like a yellow canary chirping in perfect rhythm, “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” After about three minutes, we reluctantly interrupted her captivated state and peeled her away in order to resume our daily activities.
I became reminiscent of these halcyon times when yellow wildflowers caught me off guard as I was walking at the end of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac. All at once, my mom’s voice reverberated through the sky in tandem with a radiant sun.
End of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac
Ironically, despite planting numerous perennial flower seeds last year, only a single variety of the daisy blossomed. The color? Yellow — a vibrant shade of Yell-OH!
Our Yell-OH! daisies
My mom not only had a penchant for all things yellow, but actually, all things, down to a modest piece of bread that the 98-pound woman stashed in her fake leather purse. And, most times, before consuming it, she’d kiss the crust in gratitude.
As I have previously written about, my mother was a proud American and WWII survivor who endured forced labor under the Nazis during her youth. Prior to her passing in 2015, she exhibited profound gratitude for each moment of the day. Many Americans, myself included, may require reminders of the things to be grateful about. I believe that for most American immigrants, gratitude starts the minute a pair of feet hit free soil.
The Fourth of July is a time to celebrate America’s independence and all that it stands for. It’s a day filled with parades, fireworks, and most importantly, the colors that represent this great nation —red, white and blue. But for me, there’s one more color that holds a special place in my heart — yellow — yell-oh!
You see, my mom, was not only one of the most grateful persons I’ve every known, but also one of the most patriotic people. (Don’t these two qualities go hand in hand?) Additionally, she was a proud mother of two veterans who courageously served in active duty during the Vietnam War.
To her, each day held the same revelry as the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Flag Day and every other holiday on the American calendar. She would joyfully declare, “Every day is Sunday!”
She also enthusiastically expressed her appreciation for America by exclaiming: “God Bless America!” to everyone she encountered — from store clerks to librarians, you name it.
Don’t think though that America handed her an easy life on a silver platter. She and my dad experienced discrimination and were exploited by many individuals. Every Monday, for instance, a bulldog of a neighbor would plop an enormous pile of dirty laundry (excluding any yellow clothes!) on our porch, causing my mom to groan from the weight when lifting the basket. Throughout the week, Mom tirelessly ironed and starched each garment while juggling her other responsibilities, a skill she acquired firsthand from the Nazis’ emphasis on producing flawless results. The same neighbor would retrieve the laundered articles on Friday or Saturday, while simultaneously expressing dissatisfaction with my mother’s work. Consequently, she would begrudgingly offer my mother meager compensation consisting of only a few coins or occasionally one dollar.
On Sundays, my parents never failed to attend church. I can vividly imagine my mother prostrating herself on the ground in prayer, grateful for the opportunity to worship her personal understanding of God without fear of being subjected to violence or even death. On her way out, Mom never failed to contribute half of her earnings into the charitable receptacle of the church.
“It’s for the poor people. God Bless America,” she’d whisper to me after we left church.
In the final decade of her life, my mother grieved the passing of her eldest son, Mike, as a result of illness; nonetheless, she retained an unwavering appreciation for her freedom to mourn openly and, in fact, helped others who suffered comparable loses.
When one considers the experiences of enduring war, division, hatred and brutality or suffering from inadequate footwear during blizzard-like weather conditions, minor discomforts faced by those in the middle- and, certainly, upper-class, such as a power outage for the day, pale in comparison.
Regardless of the hardships she endured in America, my mother never lost her faith in America even during its darkest moments. Her attention remained fixed on the selfless acts of our nation’s forefathers and their successors, including her own sons, in upholding our liberty and autonomy.
When I find my self amid personal struggles, I am grateful for her legacy that rarely fails to empower me. Fortunately, during summer months, her positive spirit is especially evident as I stroll along the path towards my house and behold the sunny faces of flowers beaming at me. Meanwhile, a melodious tune chirps within my mind, singing out “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!”
As we celebrate the holiday today, let us remember those who have gone before us and the traditions they held dear. Let us honor their memory and carry on their legacy, whether we wear red, white, blue or even yellow — Yell-oh! —because we are FREE to do so! Happy Fourth of July!
Despite my reservations, I decided to attend “The Judds: The Final Tour” concert last Saturday. I had a variety of concerns about the event that were causing me to hesitate, none of which I’ll elaborate on, but in the end, I decided to take the plunge and go with my dear friend, Camille, who secured the tickets. As it turned out, my worries were unfounded.
Wynonna Judd has been a household name since the early 90s when she rose to fame as a country music star. Her success was meteoric, and she quickly became one of the most popular country singers of all time. However, despite her fame and success, although I liked and sang along to her hits on the radio, I was never a huge fan. Since Lucille Ball died in 1989, I did not conform with the masses and follow any other entertainers, singers or celebrities.
Before our family tragedy, I had been an avid fan of country/western music. Now, I no longer feel the same connection to this genre. I was curious, however, to see how Wynonna would bring her style of music to life on the stage. I wasn’t sure what to expect. After all, I had never seen her perform before. But when she took the stage and started playing her country music, I was blown away by her talent and energy that had me – and the rest of the audience – captivated from start to finish.
The Judd family has been in the public eye for many years, and during that time, many rumors and conflicts have come to light. It is no secret that the Judds have also faced a great deal of mental health challenges, ranging from depression to addiction. The matriarch, Naomi, died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound on April 30, 2022, the day before she and Wynonna were scheduled to be inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. The concert we went to was initially intended to be part of Naomi and Wynonna’s tour, the first one in nearly a decade that the singers announced on April 11, nine days before the tragedy happened.
Strongly influenced by her husband, Cactus, after her mom’s death, Wynonna decided to perform the tour solo. Her decision has led her to be a symbol of hope and faith for many people, myself among them. The singer’s strength lies in her ability to perform while grieving her recent loss, especially when you consider the scope of the monster. Labeling grief as an emotion or feeling is only looking at it in a very limited way. Grief is more like a giant sponge that absorbs and affects us on all levels – physical, mental, emotional and spiritual. For Wynonna, there is no running away from the pain. Instead, she takes it head-on with her fearless attitude.
Grief is also a universal emotion, yet it is often associated with shame and taboo. On stage, one woman has chosen to counter this stigma by sharing her story of loss and grief in an open and honest way. Through Wynonna’s tears, she communicates to others that it is okay to cry, to feel pain, and freely express emotions and, thereby, encourages others to confront their own uncomfortable feelings. Furthermore, she demonstrates resilience by continuing to live a different version of life after grief’s transformative effect.
As I looked around the room during the concert, I was taken aback by the sight of numerous rows of empty seats. It was a stark contrast to the energy and enthusiasm that Wynonna spread throughout the arena. Instead of ignoring the empty seats, she addressed them directly, revealing her difficulty in coming to terms with empty seats when she was a young performer. She told the audience that she now at 58 years old understands that quality is more important than quantity. She has experienced the highs and lows of life and decided that living meaningfully is what truly matters. On the night of the concert, it was definitely quality and not quantity that counted. The atmosphere was electric. As Wyonna put it, it felt as if there were 10,000 people in the audience cheering and singing along to every song. She confided that, as it turned out, we had been her BEST audience during that particular week.
The performer shared during an interview that the goal of her performances on this tour was to heal. The stage, in fact, was filled with love, a powerful emotion that has the ability to bring people together and heal broken hearts. It was a sight to behold, as people of all ages and backgrounds were united in love. Last week, I wrote about the topic of love and actually planned to write about it this week with a totally different story angle until I attended the concert.
Interestingly, when I watched Wynonna and Cactus, an amazing drummer, singing and gazing into each other’s eyes, I, too, was moved by their deep connection, a positive element of their relationship that she has also publicly discussed. It was a reminder that true love is not always about grand gestures, but more about being present to the moment and appreciating what you have.
Wynonna’s performance became further enhanced by her nostalgic mix of photos and videos that served as a reminder of the many impactful memories Wynonna’s mom created in her lifetime. At the end of the concert, it was particularly heartwarming to hear Wynonna singing along with a synced video image of her mom singing too.
The music of a vulnerable human being is something that goes beyond just sound. It is an expression of deep emotion and experience that can touch the heart and soul of listeners. When such a person sings, it is as if they are presenting themselves in a poignant song, inviting us to feel their pain and joy in every note. I was drawn to Wynonna’s music and able to reflect and introspect in a way in which I connected with the artist on a deeper level than I could ever have imagined. Her music moved me emotionally, helped me process my own grief I was feeling at the time. Even though country/western music is no longer the genre that defines me as it once did, Wynonna helped me understand that it still holds a special place in my heart. I cannot erase the part it played, along with my memories, in my own unique narrative and journey. Who would have dreamed that in about an hour and a half of her performance, though I knew the power of love could heal a broken heart, what I didn’t fully grasp was the importance of understanding how the bridge of love had already been built inside me over a long course of time. I can look at both sides, inward and outward, and find solace despite the pain and hurt, see a broken heart and take comfort in the fact that its quality as a vessel of love remains.
Year after year, since my daughter was born, whenever my mom called or said my daughter’s name, Alexandra! (always with the sound of an exclamation point at the end), she squealed as if she were waking from a dream come true: her youngest granddaughter really did carry on her name.
“Alexandra! Alexandra!”
She was grateful for everything, but she especially relished in the notion that she had left a legacy that she was privileged enough to experience while she was still alive: hearing her real name said out loud. You see, this wasn’t always the case in her youth.
Many people experience hardships, but my mom fell into the group of survivors who lived through enormous tragedy and in doing so, life took on a completely different meaning for her. I thought I did, but I never did, understand what living through tragedy meant, until I lived through one of my own.
And so on what would have marked your 97th birthday yesterday — this blog post is for you, Ma! It’s in memory of the long ago little, dark-haired girl who, like a perfectly tuned violin, had a soprano voice that could melt steel. When she sang in concerts, it certainly did melt audiences’ hearts in her beloved European city of Minsk. Her father, my grandfather, Nicholi, a merchant, as well as a part-time bootlegger, recognized and supported his young daughter’s talent by hiring a voice teacher to train her professionally.
For a number of years, my mom made the weekly trek on foot to the voice teacher’s house to study with her. My mom’s own mother passed away when she was still a toddler and even though her dad had remarried a “nice enough” woman, as my mother referred to her, her beloved voice teacher, whom she endearingly called “Cho-Cha,“ meaning “Aunt” had become her surrogate mother.
Cho-Cha went beyond helping my mom with her vocal range. She became a trusted mentor, built her up with compassion and wisdom and as World War II broke out, became an increasingly important anchor.
Prior to the bombing and total destruction of her beloved home in her native Minsk, the Capital of Belarus, and the surrounding area, there were insidious occurrences that transpired, such as my mom’s neighbors mysteriously disappearing. without further investigation. Nazi troops, too, grew and ballooned throughout the city.
For me, two books helped widen my perspective of how war can be a slow build —just enough to be noticed, but unremarkable enough to be conveniently denied.
In spite of the fact that World War II was moving in on my mom’s own personal world, she was about 15, and was walking to Cho-Cha’s house for her weekly vocal lessons. I imagine she was warming up by singing.
Suddenly, as she retold the story, the sky turned into an evil pitch of darkness. Rounds of machine gun fire sounded in the distance. She immediately took cover, hiding alongside the city’s buildings. She did not, however, turn back. Eventually, she snaked forward, toward her Cho-Cha’s residence.
When she moved closer to the voice teacher’s house, the gun fire subsided. At first, she said she thought it was a hallucination. But then, the piercing reality hit her in front of her young eyes as her song books unleashed into the brittle dirt of the pathway. There, on the sidewalk, laid her beloved Cho-Cha in a pool of her own blood. It was obvious that Cho-Cha had unsuccessfully tried to run for her life. Her only offense was being born a Jew. My mom’s devotion and loyalty propelled her to run into the center of the scene, gunfire still in the distance. She flung her young body over Cho-Cha’s and draped her corpse with her own distressed body — my mom’s love spilled over Cho-Cha like her mentor’s blood had spilled out of her.
“Cho-Cha! Cho-Cha!” My mother cried, losing what felt like her mother for a second time, as she weeped and bawled into the night without consolation.
Some war narratives have no endings, such as this one. I don’t know why the Nazis did not shoot my mother dead too. I don’t know if, as I would think, someone finally picked my mother off Cho-Cha’s lifeless body and then hauled the corpse away.
I do know, either days or months later, as I’ve written before, the Nazis snatched my mom up from the street where she was roaming and kidnapped her to Germany. She eventually became “forced labor” for a German family. In actuality, the appropriate term was “slave labor.”
The Germans also changed my mom’s name from “Alexandra,” as she was called, to “Lysa,” pronounced in German as “Leeza.”
And now, you understand why her real name meant so much to her, Alexandra; Alex, for short. How she lit up every time someone mentioned her name, especially in relation to my daughter, Alexandra. (Their birthdays are also a mere 12 days apart!)
The point is, the Nazis stripped my mom’s name away from her, but only temporarily. Then the honor of identity was bestowed on my mother, not once, but twice!
But that’s not the end of this story, and this story still pertains to the effects of war, but it does have a clear end, sort of.
Mom did sing again after she immigrated with my dad and two older brothers to America. When I was growing up, I heard her sing in church, and every part of my body and soul would rise to the steeple when I heard her euphonious voice. Then, without the slightest indication, she’d stop abruptly and cry. Cry! It made no sense to me, but, as a child, I was publicly mortified. (Fortunately, everyone in church pretended they didn’t notice.) When I was an adolescent, to my relief, she ceased singing all together — at least in public.
Once in a while, though, I’d overhear her in her bedroom singing and then wailing. I never understood and finally asked her very irritated.
“Why do you have to cry, Ma? Why? Why can’t you just sing like everybody else?”
“Because happiness always brings sadness.”
Well, after that, I didn’t broach the obviously difficult subject too often. Then, a few months ago, I was revisiting the two books I mentioned, thinking about tragedy, real, honest-to-God tragedy where God, or any sort of higher power, has vanished and faith is zapped in an electric chair of fear.
All at once, I realized for the first time ever that the Nazis had stolen my mother’s name only temporarily and then stole her voice almost permanently when they murdered her voice teacher. The long and the short of it is she still sang, regardless of how she couldn’t get past a few lyrics, she still sang!
Best of all, my memory of her singing voice has become the breath of life for me! When I am particularly struggling amid the realities of life, I ask her in my mind to, Sing, Ma! Sing! And I hear her flawless musical talent as natural and flowing as the doves’ wings that visit my garden.
Sing, Ma! Sing! As if there were never wars. Sing, Ma! Sing! As if life were a birdsong without sad tears, only happy melodies. Sing, Ma! Sing! I say, and go forth through the darkness in a backdrop of her high notes, and the music helps strengthen my diaphragm and fills my lungs beyond a capacity of unimaginable proportions.
Sing, Ma! Sing! This song is for you, Ma! Happy Birthday, Ma! My love for you is an endless melody!
My father grasped a plastic bag in his dry, reddened, calloused hands, a mirror of the good earth that he loved to work on. During our frequent train trips to the East Village, a part of Greenwich Village in New York City, my dad’s blank face pointed one way: forward.
“Come on!” he commanded in his broken English when we arrived at the station, finally breaking the silence after the nearly two-hour ride. He grabbed his other half-dozen or so bags and boxes in the train’s overhead compartment and slid some over one arm and the rest over his other arm.
He ricocheted across Grand Central Station. My short, young legs fell farther and farther behind. He streamed outside, squeezing through the crowd on Lexington Avenue and hailed a cab. By the time I caught up, I could see the cab driver’s face as he veered towards the sidewalk. The driver parked, and we got in.
The cab snaked through the city streets to a retail clothes store on Second Avenue. Inside, the shiny skinned, Russian-Jewish shop owner, with his one lazy eye, mildly greeted us. My father hoisted his items on the counter for him to inspect every inch of the clothes, shoes, socks, purses and scarves, so many scarves, that my dad and mom had collected for my dad’s mom and the rest of his family in Lviv, Ukraine.
My dad, who was fluent in French and a number of Slavic languages, spoke to the man in Russian. I didn’t comprehend many of the words, but I detected a stiffness in my dad’s tone. At last the store owner approved my family’s goods to be shipped to Ukraine (and I believe he always did), and began packing everything into a large parcel. My father cracked the first smile of the day, retrieved his faded cowhide wallet from his pocket and enthusiastically purchased about a half dozen extra scarves to add to the package. In addition, he also handed him an envelope addressed to my relatives to also enclose. After that, the store owner copied the mailing address from a tattered, folded up piece of paper that my dad kept in his wallet and finished preparing the package for shipment to Ukraine. At the end of the exchange, my dad paid for the scarves, postal fees and services.
Once the door closed behind us, back outside my dad always said the same two phrases and nothing else, “Hope it goes through. Damn communists.”
He bought me a hot sweet potato from a street vendor down the block and refrained from spending any money on a treat for himself. His steps were lighter and easier for me to follow as we walked partially back to Grand Central Station before hailing another cab.
My dad passed away in December of 2000. Since the attack on Ukraine by the Russians last Thursday, I find myself remembering so many things about the man whose legacy of action outweighed any of his promises, because, in fact, I don’t ever remember him promising anything. He lived his motto: promise low, deliver high.
I am relieved that my dad is not alive to watch the atrocities and devastation in his beloved homeland. I don’t think the Ghost of Kyiv, an anonymous fighter pilot who is said to shoot down Russian planes, is just an urban legend. I think it is my reincarnated dad doing all he ever did, being his real self and fighting for freedom, family, country and tradition.
I was a first-generation American who spent most of my childhood playing and riding my bicycle in my affluent, white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant neighborhood in Connecticut. Days were rare when my dad didn’t stand outside on the porch and echo, “Nastuna!”
The name, as far as I can figure out, was a child-like rendition of my actual name, Anastasia.
I furiously pedaled home and begged him to shush. He yelled it louder and started throwing out a few other choice Ukrainian expletives that intercepted his usual lecture about loyalty, heritage and truth and made sure everyone in earshot could hear his Ukrainian words mixed in with English ones. I didn’t dare cup my hands over my ears. Apart from a few isolated minor strikes on my rear, my father did not employ corporeal punishment, at least not on me, the only daughter in the family. In spite of that fact, I still held an innate fear of my father.
My dad exasperated the bullying situation, and the neighborhood kids snickered and laughed and instead of calling me “Anastasia,” they mocked my father and called me “Petunia.”
I never lived down the foreignness of my dad even after the second grade teacher took it upon herself to change my name to “Stacy.” (That’s another story for another blog.)
I never was able to purchase a pack of petunias without my heart beating inside my eardrums until I was around forty years old.
My dad, on the other hand, rose above the element of exclusion that followed us as well as many other first-born Americans of foreign parents.
“Ehhh. I’ll outlive them all,” my dad insisted.
And in the end he did. He lived to be 86.
Back in the 1960s and 1970s and even into the 1990s and after, oddly, Americans weren’t familiar with Ukraine. My mother, who was born in Belarus but adopted my dad’s family heritage, advised me just to tell my first grade class that my family was from Germany. Everyone, of course, knew about Germany. I even wrote a paper about my family’s “native” country of Germany. The idea of “coming from Germany” wasn’t totally inaccurate because my parents were “displaced people,” refugees, without a country for about seven years, after they lost their homes to the Nazis before they immigrated to America. My mom and dad met and married and birthed my two older brothers in Germany.
After working a number of jobs while learning the language, he met Peter Martini, a first-generation American from Italian roots, who owned a septic cleaning business. He gifted my dad with the best thing you could ever give someone: a future. He taught him everything there was about septic systems. My father, in fact, asked Mr. Martini to be my Godfather, and Mr. Martini obliged. Because of his generosity, my dad landed a job at the town’s sewerage treatment plant and worked there until he retired.
My dad was the most predictable man on earth and never missed pulling down our driveway after work at 4:08 p.m. When he stepped inside our house, it was one of the few times he wasn’t his stoic self, because he had a smile as wide as his face.
His lips were sealed with gratitude. In my dad’s book, if you worked hard and did the right thing, you were a good person. Simple as that.
Years later, I learned from one of my dad’s former co-workers that my dad’s boss sent my dad to investigate any underground sewer gas leaks or other toxic sewer systems emergencies. Long before organizations like OSHA appeared with safety measure implementations, my Ukrainian-American dad’s “alien” status ranked him as the low man on the totem pole, and, thereby, he was the scapegoat of the department and was the one to have his life jeopardized by fixing hazardous sites.
A WWII war refugee, my dad never went beyond grade school, but to this day, he is the smartest man I’ve ever known and I am quite certain, he knew he risked his life during those toxic emergencies. Leave it to “pops,” he did it fearlessly, honorably and humbly because he was also the most loyal man I’ve ever known. He did it for his family and those he loved.
He was a man of pride. I think one of his proudest moments was when he learned the man who took over his job after he retired held a degree in engineering.
Over the years, my Ukrainian father never stopped correcting people who insisted he was from Russia. He would grow frustrated, saying, “One day, they will know. The world will know about Ukraine and its people.”
“Today,” I wish I could tell my father that the world knows. THEY KNOW! In the eye of evil and calculated, intentional injustice and genocide of the Ukrainian people, the nation without divide of class or jurisdiction – former beauty queen alongside 80-year-olds – has entered the ring to fight against the evil dictator, Russian President Vladimir Putin and his consort of dark angels.
As horrified as I am witnessing the destructive path of one man, I am honored by my dad’s Ukrainian roots.
I am lifted up by the humanitarian efforts of people across the globe and the people in my own tribe, including Kathy, an old-time friend whom I’d lost touch with over these last few years, asked me over the phone: “What can I do?”
I intended to write about how the developing news of this loss since last Thursday magnifies other losses, and, yes, we do have family still in Ukraine. Instead, I ended up writing about my dad, because so many times when I am lower than low, he is my ghost pilot that lifts me up and gives me faith like no other: “Get up and do what you’re suppose to do. I don’t care you hurt.”
So, thanks to the legacy of this mighty oak of a man, I am proud to report that I am organizing a Stand with Ukraine rally on March 5th….. and invite my blogging community to join me IN PERSON if you can — and certainly in spirit!
Today is May 25th. Every year for as long as she lived, my mom marked this date on the calendar as her death date.
Nothing, not anyone, intercepted her schedule and agenda, her oxygen sources. A total control freak, it was as if she grasped a snow globe world in her hands. Whenever she shook it, a blizzard erupted. Additionally, her ultimate weapons of control were superstition and religion.
In Norman Erikson Pasaribu’s short story, So What’s Your Name, Sandra? when the author describes Mama Sandra’s sense of control, he conjures up my mother’s exact image. He writes, “Suddenly she gasped—the realization hitting her that she’d forgotten to pray before her plane had taken off. If they had exploded in mid-air, thought Mama Sandra in horror, if hundreds of someones’ someones had died that day, it would have been all her fault.”
My mom created a cause-and-effect world and whether something good or bad happened, there was always a hard and fast reason. Some of her legacy she passed on to me. Long after my mom’s death, I still avoid stepping on a sidewalk’s cracks .…“Step on the crack, break your mother’s back” .… What daughter in her right mind would willingly do that to her mom, alive or dead?
Most of my mom’s control issues stemmed from being a World War II survivor. She placed her full faith into a built-in life script. Editing it was an impossible task.
One of my mom’s many idiosyncrasies was her desire to die in the month of May. May 25th to be exact. She longed to share the death date with her father, my grandfather. Though he had died long before I was born, my mom insisted that God loved him so much that apparently when he died, he was gifted with the nicest, sunniest day of the year. The sky was as clear as a wavelength of light from a prism, and you could see for miles without having to squint. My mom also said that my grandfather was a well-loved man in the community and hundreds of people attended his funeral and celebrated his life. That said, in her eyes, a May 25th death was not sad or solemn but happy. Plus, perhaps it was also part of the Byelorussian culture she was raised in, but my mom prayed for her specific death date as if she were praying for a future, festive wedding celebration. Year after year, she kneeled in front of her Jesus and Mother Mary statues in her bedroom and, along with her death date prayer request, she also prayed for a peaceful death in her own bed at home. At the very least, if the 25th was inconvenient, she implored God, to grant her a springtime death date.
I had faith that if there existed a compassionate God, he would grant my mother’s wish. Of course, God, my Christian friends remind me, is NOT a magical genie.
When the day arrived, a little more than two months after she celebrated her 90th birthday, instead of May 25thor during springtime, my mother died on December 29th in 2015 on a dark frigid winter’s day. My daughter and I were in another state, about two hours away, when we heard the news and could not immediately return home, because we were trapped in an ice storm. Additionally, my mom did not die, per her request, at home and in her bed. My mom died in a nursing facility, because she had suffered a stroke and required medical support. So, all her years of prayers amounted to nothing.
There’s a silver lining to this story though. First, my mother actually did die as she wanted, peacefully. Second, shortly before she died, I asked her, while she laid in the hospital bed, where she thought she was.
“Home,” she replied.
After her response, I remember that all that came to me was how God was just. If my mom realized the raw reality of the situation and that she would not die in her bed at home as she had always prayed, she would have been devastated. Obviously, too, she was not aware of the season at the time, so that fact also seemed just, but here’s the clincher. The first spring after her death, I found beautiful photos of my mom shot about a year prior on our back deck. There was no special occasion, but our dear family friend, Anne, was visiting from New Mexico, and we held an impromptu gathering. Although my daughter was away working as a camp counselor in upstate New York, my son attended and other family members and close friends. At the gathering, laughter filled the air, and it was the kind of gathering where you might forget eating and drinking altogether because of the abundance of delicious conversation. The sun was aglow, cupped inside a cloudless sky. You could see for miles without a telescope. Out of a lifetime of gatherings, it hit the top ten list.
Anyway, as I examined the pictures, I spotted the date: MAY 25th. In retrospect, I realize IT WAS the last time my mom was alive, at least in the way we knew her. It was the last time she was one hundred percent lucid and pain-free and, in fact, resonated with youth and life. After that day, she took a turn and, in almost every sense of the word, she died. In my mind, I always reflect on that date as symbolizing her last good day on earth until she gave into her symbolized death that night of May 25th. In addition, I see that wondrous May 25th day as the best “Goodbye Party” I’ve ever attended. I couldn’t have prayed for a better outcome.
I, of all people, know that as much as we would like to think we are in control of our destinies, we are utterly powerless. It’s a consequence of being human. But I also know that when things whirl out of control, I need to place my two feet into a composite of faith, trust, hope. At the moment, however, as I carry my griefcase, I only have quicksand to trudge in. Interestingly, I read that you can only sink as far as your waist into quicksand unless you dive head first or face first. Given this information, I keep my faith and allow myself to sink without drowning. Head up, I can’t miss the spring air, and I soak up the warmth and, without orchestrating a thing, allow the process of the natural healing powers to amaze me, especially in the darkest of days that feel like they are buried in a non-breathable acrylic shroud.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 