Stories

Sunday morning, wondering why I awaken with a story playing in my head even before I arise. As I age, I begin to see more clearly that there was a 'story' was given to me, so long ago, and in bits. It is built into a quagmire of thoughts which holds court in my brain when I am not even aware. It probably permeates my dreams.

Gerry, you come to me front and center on this morning of the week, Sunday. The day I spent years attending mass, not by choice. You are now one more dear one from my past who has gone on this fall. You were my mother-in-law, Gram to my kids. You were a Catholic girl, like my own Mom, and you both bore 9 children, 4 boys and 5 girls each. You had a photo of the Pope on your mantel, but when Big Jim left you, you took the photo down. I believe at some point after that you invented yourself again. You never remarried, and maintained a life alone.

 You had a story you believed about yourself, that you were slighted, cast aside, undervalued by your parents. The story continued from your childhood into your marriage. Whenever I spent time with you, I consciously tried to counteract that story. Making you feel happy was a challenge I took on, because of the way my own mother was. You were kind to me, and I so appreciated that. You appreciated the way I raised your grandsons.

Snapshot memories are what I have now, because we lived 1000 miles apart.

 Christmas 1976: I showed at the Belmont, CA family home with Jim, at the last minute, and unexpected. Jim had an aversion to calling ahead. Nonetheless, you welcomed me warmly and made sure that I had a gift to open when the family exchanged presents. You gave me a pair of warm red gloves. They were useful, and I kept them a long time to remember your kindness.

 Snapshot:1984.  We are sitting at the Lake Crescent Lodge restaurant, having lunch.  You ordered the clam chowder, and prefaced that by saying, "I've never had good clam chowder in a restaurant. I make the best chowder myself."

 That statement reinforced what I had begun to fear. That going against your story would be a losing battle. Your story was one which set the stage for reasons to be discontented. There was bacon in the chowder, and that was a no no. You were right, it was not up to snuff. Luckily the water was pretty, the car didn't break down and the children were good. We sat below the Olympic Mountains on the edge of a magnificent glacial lake. This made me think, why should it be so hard to just be happy?

1989: The saddest snapshot is you and I dressing for Jimmy's memorial at our home in the Elwha Valley. I had suddenly lost a husband, and you had lost a son. I hugged you and said, "I am so sorry you lost your baby."

 You hugged me back, you didn't dissolve into tears. You patted me, and I felt our connection. You, the tough mama, used to taking punches. Later you will relate that year felt like as though you were hit by a Mac Truck.  That was as apt a description as I, myself, might have used. We were hit hard, tough cookies we are, but still, we can be undermined. You and I carried that burden of loss, the mother's pain.

Snapshot 2002: You meet me dressed up, in a purple dress and a red hat. We have our picture taken by another resident of San Mateo Retirement Village. Years ago I had sent you the book " When I am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple". This resonated with you.  You loved the sentiment. Being old meant you could forget what anyone thought. Maybe at this point in your life, you were letting go, just a bit, of your story. 

Snapshot: 2013, our last visit. We go to lunch at the shopping center in Belmont. Afterwards we sit in your room at the assisted living facility. You ask me to stay, change into a house dress and lie down on your couch. Now, you say, lets talk. We talk about the past, the many years since I first became a part of the 'Curtis Family'. We talk about Jimmy, the boys, the big families which comprise 22 aunts and 23 uncles for my sons. The afternoon passes pleasantly. There is a timeless element to this visit. We laugh, and we cry.

You hand me some photos I had sent you over the years. One is a little album of you and my sons, and your son, their father. You say, "Here, I want you to take this." No more need be said. You want to make sure the photos all go back to those to whom they mean the most. You are preparing to leave this life. You still have the same feisty retorts and opinionated comments that I recall from you 37 years ago when I first met you. Not much dementia has hampered your personality. Any curmudgeonly aspects are those which you have nurtured and cultivated for over 80 years.

In the final analysis, you loved your family with all the you had. You tried, I believe, in your own way, to write your story into a plot you could live with. You sent me lovely cards every now and then, reaching out when you had the energy.

I offer this writing as my formal good bye. You've gone on, to the cosmos where everything can only be one. There is no separation, there is no mind to separate, there is only memory we hold of all that has gone to make us where we are now.