Epiphany: I've become my mother! But not quite

                For nine days straight, I had to leave the house to go somewhere––a doctor’s appointment, a friend’s funeral, bell practice, church, a monthly luncheon with friends, a monthly breakfast with other friends, the hospital for an out-patient procedure, another bell practice as a sub, a writers’ group meeting. Nine straight days I had to get clean, apply make-up, dress (according to the place/event), be sure I had my phone and keys and purse. And gasoline.

                Afterwards, I re-dressed to my everyday garb and laid my clothes on whatever surface was available in either the bedroom or bathroom. I would likely wear everything again.

                One day, it hit me: I had taken over one of Mom’s characteristics the way she took over Dad’s after his death. Many’s the time I visited and her clothes were layered on the recliner. Some on the back, some on the arms, some in the seat. I don’t remember saying anything to her about putting away her clothes. And I’m glad I didn’t.

                Mom always wanted to look her best even at her advanced age, so she kept her magnifying mirror and her Avon beauty products on the breakfast room table. Sis Carolyn would do her hair between perms. I often laughed that Mom was vain, but now, I do the same thing. Am I also vain? I’ll need to consider changing the description from “vain” to “wanting to look nice.” Yes, that’s it. Even into old age. Especially into old age.

                A third way I have become “my Mom” is that I religiously—no, that’s not the right word—diligently work the crypto-quotes and the crosswords, even if it’s the last thing I do before retiring. Even if it’s nearly midnight. Toward the last, Mom sat in her recliner (moved to the breakfast room where a TV sat) with a crossword book and pencil. Talk about diligence.  It wouldn’t have been right to go behind her and check her words and point out that she didn't do it right. Nope, not for one in her early nineties.

                I’ve followed her and Dad’s life-long penchant for subscribing to the state daily—the Arkansas Gazette, and then the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. They also subscribed to the Benton Courier, as do I, only now, it is the Saline County Courier. So many folks do not get a state paper—only the local one, if that. But I have to remember: most folks get their news from TV and I don’t.

                Also, like Mom, I keep house plants, including her African violets, which have grown and multiplied. I’ve shared them—like I did the pears—with any who want one, and still have babies growing in the kitchen windowsills. One of her two hanging baskets of common begonia is still thriving, though I’ve divided it into two. Her split-leaf philodendron is growing, despite the year I nearly lost it to the cold weather. Even on the back porch.

                But I’m not like Mom in other ways. I don’t attend Sunday School. And I attend church until after the anthem. Even when she couldn’t hear very well, she sat with the other ladies and sang and “listened” raptly. She liked the projection screen; she didn’t have to manhandle the heavy hymnal with her arthritic hands. People adored her.

                I can only hope to enter heaven on her coattails.

March lagged behind in its tempo to spring's marching

~~Spring of 2006, PL~~

 

 

                Most years by now all the spring-blooming plants were in full blossom, and I sometimes listed all I could see around Couchwood. Not this year. But with the few warm days we’ve had, more and more color is showing on this first day of spring.

 

                The inside plants blooming are blue African violets, and red epesia trumpets. The bracts of the red Christmas poinsettia, and two red carnations with baby’s breath and greenery (from the Valentine bouquet sent by my Florida son) still decorate my buffet.

 

                Oh, yes, and a bouquet of cut flowers lends springtime to my sight and a heady aroma to my nose from the dining table. For the first time ever, I also arranged a bouquet for the bathroom. (Why hadn't I thought of that before now?)

 

Outside on the porch are the newly released house plants. The baby jew from my Hot Springs son has tiny white dots for blooms. (I’ve never had such a plant before. ) Two other plants have their own odd-shaped blossoms. A cutting of begonia in water shows a pink bloom.

 

Five kinds of daffodil or buttercups brighten either the edges of the yard or the flower beds. The vintage double ones are more profuse than usual. And appear in more places. Others are common daffodils, a vintage, single fragrant buttercup, two hybridized ones—one completely yellow with a cup, and one yellow with an orange cup. Oh, and here’s another: ivory with a larger yellow cup.

 

Farther out are forsythia, japonica—both pink and white--and spirea, but none as full of color as they usually are by this time. Perhaps another week of warm weather…

 

Grandson Billy’s 24^th birthday was Wednesday. The first time in his life, he said, that it didn’t fall during spring break. He'll come "home" tonight and Friday (no classes; no work shift) for a rare visit.

 

Other family events happened in March. Dad was born March 25, 1909. One of my sisters—Barbara--was born on March 28, 1947. Mom died on March 28, 2006.

 

On March 20 in other years, Uncle Tom's Cabin was first published--in 1852. John Lennon married Yoko Ono in Gibraltar, 1969.

 

On March 21^st in 1790, Thomas Jefferson became Secretary of State under President Washington. Alcatraz prison was emptied of prisoners by the order of Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy in 1963.

 

March 22^nd saw The Beatles’ US album The Early Beatles released in 1965.

 

March 23^rd Patrick Henry's Give me Liberty speech occurred in 1775.The United States Mint produced its first coins made by a press in 1836.

 

March 24^th 1989 saw the largest oil spill in United States history. It happened in Alaska.

 

On March 25^th in 1954, RCA first produced color televisions. (I was a high school senior.)

 

March 26^th 1892, poet Walt Whitman died in Camden, New Jersey.

 

Belated, but still appropriate to the season is this Irish Blessing: “May good luck be with you wherever you go, and your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow.”

c 2014, lovepat press, PL

A fantasy on the first anniversary of Mom’s death

by Pat Laster

 “Come in here, Mom,” I said, as she swept into the house where she’d lived for 64 years. She glided to a stop. Looking around the living room, her lips thinned, eyes clouded, brow furrowed. Upturned palms panned this area of the family home––now mine. I half expected her to say, as she had during the last days, ‘What are you doing here?’

I pushed a swivel chair under her so she could view the entire room. “We sold your sofa. None of your heirs needed it. This one’s mine, remember?”

Mom cast one arm toward her piano that was still where she left it. Mine stood beside it. “Carolyn doesn’t have room for it in her house.”

Slowly, she surveyed the rest of the room, shaking her head.

“No one needed the cabinet stereo, so I gave it to my friend Dot. Your hospice nurse wanted the macramé plant hanger from that corner. Doesn’t your pink recliner look good there?”

Mom lifted her hand toward the sunroom that I had turned into an office. She held my arm, rose from the chair and moved toward the bright area. At the double doorframe, I turned a rocking chair around and eased her down. She shivered; I shawled her shoulders with one of her throws.

She studied the room. Nothing stood where it previously had. The only familiar piece was Granddad Noah’s handmade library table.

She spotted her African violets. For years, the stunted blue-flowered plants merely existed in plastic yellow pots set on spiraling ledges of a wrought-iron stand. I’d repotted them into ceramic containers and sunk two more into blue pottery jardinières.

With regular care and plant food, the violets had thrived; the blooms were profuse. Mom motioned to one and held out her hands. I took it down and let her hold it on her lap. For the first time, she smiled.

We continued the slow journey through the house. In the dining room, she finally relaxed. Her massive china cabinet still stood in its place. She didn’t seem to notice that the oak buffet was on another wall, and that my china hutch was in that space. As if she had just come in with the newspaper, she sat down at the table—as cluttered now as it was then, albeit with different items—reached for the unfinished crossword and the ubiquitous pen, and went to work—an eerie scene of dejavu.

After lunch, where we watched the birds in the birdbath and beautyberry bush, and before viewing other changes, Mom agreed to a nap.

The bathroom wall heater still warmed. A flea-market picture frame held a picture of her and her mother. She seemed pleased.

After she lay down, I placed a pillow under her knees, then added blankets until she motioned to stop.

Later, we walked into the bedroom where Dad endured his final illness. It now served as my sitting room. The hide-a-bed sofa was the only thing she recognized. Her face twisted; she shuddered and turned away.

She led me to the room beyond the kitchen which was her sitting room. When she noticed her houseplants, her eyes sparkled for an instant, but faded like a firework.

Suddenly, Mom tugged at my arm, and then skimmed unaided across the hardwood to the front door. She scrabbled at the hardware like a pet wanting out.

I opened it, and before I could kiss her, she was gone.     #                                    © 2012, Pat Laster