Monthly Archives: July 2014

Memories Of Mother… Post 58: Can you Find Jesus?

31 Thursday Jul 2014

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Okay, this is how the story goes:

Certainly we have all had more than our fair share of…

“I saw Jesus…”

…in a Butterfly,

…on a piece of toast,

…on a pumpkin.

The stories are in all the weekly tabloids.

Well, one summer day I received a phone call from Mother.

“You’ll never believe what I found in the bathroom,” she cheerfully announced.

“What did you find in the bathroom,” I asked her.

“Jesus,” she replied.

That was not the answer I was expecting.

A lost earring, or contact lens, yes.

Jesus, no.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

It seemed like a reasonable question, and I’m not afraid to admit I was worried over how she was going to answer me.

“Well,” she began, I was sitting in the bathroom, looking down at the floor, and there he was right in front of me.

“You saw Jesus on the floor?”

“Yes, in the linoleum tile.”

All I could of think to say was;

“That’s nice Mother!” ….

Which was followed by me quickly changing the subject before it went any further….

And hope that this would all be forgotten by morning!

She never mentioned it to me on the telephone again.

Okay…  now fast-forward about two months.

It’s September 2011 and I am visiting my Mother for her birthday.

Also visiting her, is my cousin from West Virginia. It had been 10 years since my Cousin and I had last seen each other. There was fun, laughter, reminiscing, and even tears during the time we spent together.

One afternoon, as I sat knitting on Mother’s couch, I heard my Mother call my Cousin into the bathroom.  From what I could hear, she was trying to point something out to him.

“No… stand here, and look right there,” she advised.

Silence…

My curiosity was peaked.  I put down my knitting, got up off the couch and headed to the bathroom to check this out.

Sure enough, there they both standing in the bathroom and staring at the floor.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Jesus,” Mother replied.

I shot her a look.

“No… Really!” she said looking me straight in the eye.

“You can see Jesus in the floor tile,” Mother insisted.

A cold shard of fear ripped through my heart.

My Mother has not only gone crazy, and in a very tacky way I might add. The last thing I wanted was to see a tabloid headline:

‘Vermont Senior finds Jesus On Bathroom Floor!’

How embarrassing that would be.

“Do you see really it?” I asked my level headed Cousin.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “It’s right there…  you just gotta look at it like you do those optical illusion pictures.”

I squinted….
I stared…..

Yup, there he was.

Oh no, …. I was as crazy as they were.

The face that I saw was reminiscent of a “Jesus on black velvet” painting, you know, the ones that we were once so fond of.

Surely, some of you must remember black velvet paintings?

Even Elvis had “Jesus on black velvet” painting.  It’s hanging in his “Jungle Room”.

It took a few moments for me to work my way through a myriad of emotions. There was no denying it now…

Yes, my Mother has an image of Jesus on her bathroom floor.

How are we going to handle this?

Well, to make a long story short it was all forgotten within an hour…

Until about a year later, Mother again raised the subject of Jesus on the floor during our nightly chat on the phone.

She had told me that they had given her a new bathroom floor.

Further, she had expressly asked the workmen, not to damage the tile bearing the image of Jesus, but rather set it aside for her.

According to Mother, they complied without any questions.

When they were finished their work, they handed Mother the bathroom floor tile.

And now, I’m happy to report that this same tile is safe and in my keeping.

So…

Your mission, dear and gentle reader…

Should you choose to accept it…..

Is to find Jesus on the bathroom floor tile shown above.

This blog post, including the picture will not self-destruct in five seconds.

Why?

…Because Jesus Saves!

 

 

Hint: The image of Jesus is a profile view a near the centre of the picture Jesus is looking to the left. If you find him let me know 🙂

Memories Of Mother… Post 57: My Velveteen Mother

30 Wednesday Jul 2014

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Several years back I gave my Mother a book called “The Velveteen Rabbit,” written by Michael Hague.

For those of you who are not familiar with the book, it’s a story about a lonely discarded toy velveteen rabbit, who wants to become a real rabbit.

Then a wise friend explained to him what it is to become real.

Becoming real is the culmination of being loved for a very long time.

To a stuffed toy rabbit proof of becoming real would be the missing bunny tail, the tattered ears, the chewed up bunny nose. To a toy rabbit these would be the signs of being well loved over a long period of time.

After reading the book together, Mother immediately understood the context of why I gave it to her.

She herself, had been well loved through the years, and the proof was in her age, her physical limitations, the many joys she had known, and yes, even her battle scars.

For what is life without our battle scars. It is part of what makes us real.

About two years ago, a toy rabbit fell under my eye, which I knew was destined to become Mother’s very own personal velveteen rabbit.

After I gave it to her, she placed it next to ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ book which sat displayed in her living room hutch.

When I visited her she would point to both the book and the rabbit and tell me how much joy they bring her.

And there, the book and the rabbit remained until May 12, 2014 when I brought them both to the Respite House.

As she slept, I placed the rabbit on the pillow next to her.

And opening up the book I read through our favorite passage, the part about how we become real by being loved.

And in her last days she taught me something more…

She taught me that we must not be afraid as we approach the end of a real life…

…. by approaching the end of her own life with both grace and a grateful heart.

 

 

 

Memories of Mother… Post 56: Shame On Me

29 Tuesday Jul 2014

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This particular story will be an embarrassing one for me to tell but it deserves to be told nevertheless.

It’s about the first time I ever got drunk.

I was 15 years old and visiting Jim parent’s house in Annapolis Maryland.

My favourite house ever…

It was getting late in the evening and Mother and Jim were in the TV room winding down after we spent a lovely day on their boat, “Wudja”.

They were each enjoying a glass of scotch and water while I was drinking Coke.

As I entered the kitchen to refill my coke, my eyes fell on the nearly full bottle of scotch on the counter.

With no one watching, I took advantage of the situation by indulging myself to a little scotch to go with my coke. Then I went to rejoin Mother and Jim as they continued to watch television.

No one was the wiser.

Two glasses later, (for a combined total of three) it was bedtime.

Feeling tired and strangely dizzy, I went upstairs and sat down on the edge of the bed,

I hardly remember crawling under the covers.

The next thing I know I’m in the bathroom heaving.

Mother wakes up and sits with me, holds my hair back with one hand while holding a cool cloth on my forehead with the other.

She promised me that everything would be okay.

This scene was repeated two more times.

In the morning, I was allowed to sleep in.

By the time I crawled downstairs, I was ready for my reprimand.

There was none.

There were no harsh words, ridicule, or sarcastic comments.

There was only the graceful silence…

….and a very bad headache.

Lesson learned.

I was very grateful but still embarrassed.

However, that was the same day I would be meeting my new sisters, (Jim’s daughters) for the very first time.

I remember sitting on the dock with a pounding headache when they came up to me and introduced themselves.

They noticed that I looked unwell and told me that their Father had told them what had happened.

More embarrassment.

There was no teasing, no judging, just sincere concern.

I loved them from that moment on.

Looking back, I am rather grateful that things turned out the way they did.

My first unfortunate experience with alcohol was in a safe environment.

Mother took good care of me, and I learned a valuable lesson without suffering any consequences.

The experience proved to me how easily vulnerable I would have been had I been out in public or even with friends.

It was only a few years ago that I was able to take my 1st shot of Glenfiddich Scotch. To this day, I still try to keep it at arm’s length.

Margueritas?

Well….

That’s a story for another day.

 

Photo of Carrollton House, ShadySide Annapolis Maryland

Courtesy of Crystie Carroll Morgan 

 

Memories Of Mother… Post 55: Beauty Must Suffer

28 Monday Jul 2014

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There were two phrases that I never wanted to hear my Mother say:

“C’est sera sera” was one of them, and…

“Beauty must suffer,” was the other.

When I would complain about the horrible smell of the Toni perm she was giving me, she would tell me:

“Beauty must suffer…”

Oh, the hours she spent hours rolling my long and stubborn straight hair up into those infernal pink and blue clips.

You can’t imagine how annoyed she would be when the very next day, my hair was totally straight again.

I don’t know how many times she tried to perm my hair before she finally gave up.

She also said:

“Beauty must suffer…”

When she was brushing my hair and putting it into tight ponytails.

Again she quoted:

“Beauty must suffer…” as I tried on my first bra, got my ears pierced and when she tried to teach me how to put in my contact lenses.

And now my dear Mother is gone.

All I have left of her are thousands of pictures to remind me how truly lovely she was.

I can’t even begin to imagine how much she must have suffered to become so beautiful…

 

 

Memories Of Mother… Post 54: Wild Child

27 Sunday Jul 2014

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Mother loved to tell me about how my Grandmother always called her “Strassenkoeter” as a child, which is German for ‘street urchin’, or even ‘wild mongrel’.

Apparently, Mother was always in trouble for one thing or another: staying out after dark, not coming home when she was suppose to, not informing her parents where she was going, or asking their permission.

There were times when my Grandmother was beside herself with worry, and would threaten her that if she isn’t more careful, the gypsies will steal her away from them.

However, upon hearing my Grandmother saying this my Grandfather would always disagree with her:

“You don’t have to worry about the gypsies stealing her, ” he’d say with a smile to my Grandmother.

“Because, I have no doubt that they will return her before morning.”

Memories Of Mother… Post 53: Agreeing To Politically Disagree

26 Saturday Jul 2014

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There was a small price to pay when visiting Mother.

You could call it a surtax of sorts…

Her television set was always set to FoxNews.

‘Nuff said.

Keep in mind that over Mother’s desk hung a frame displaying a letter addressed to ‘Jim and Gerda’ thanking them for a Christmas card. This letter was signed by George W. Bush.

There is a scene in the movie ET which I have a particular fondness of:

It’s the part where ET is going to the refrigerator. He comes across container of yogurt opens it and swallows a mouthful.

Then suddenly, with a high and particularly loud, nasally pitched shriek of disgust he whips the yogurt container back into the fridge, creating an unholy mess.

Now, that is exactly how I feel every time I watch FoxNews.

The only difference is that I have never thrown food at a television while it’s on.

Mother would never approve.

The first couple of visits were rough. I think that I only flinched once, maybe twice each day.

And eventually, Mother learned to keep her political comments to herself. I followed suit.

And so, while Fox News played in the background there was very little discussion between Mother and I.

We just sat and listened.

The only thing was that I always tended to knit a little faster while the Fox co-anchors went through their anti-Obama spiel.

As time went on I was able to build a thicker skin thanks to pundits Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.

In fact, during my last few visits to mother she was gracious enough to offer to change the channel to CNN.

I thanked her for her consideration but I told her it was fine, she could leave the TV channel set to FOXNews.

I was beginning to find it amusing. Mother once even mentioned that she loved watching my facial expressions as I listened to the news anchors dribble their way through the daily headlines.

From all the postcards that I sent Mother, I’ve noticed one that was missing.

I’m not at all surprised that it’s missing because I fully anticipated not ever seeing it again when I mailed it to her.

But I just had to mail it to her… Just because!

It was a postcard of a favourite President from my lifetime, Jimmy Carter.

Actually, I’m quite surprised that the postcard you see above found it’s way back to me. The photo on the front is a picture of the White House by night.

If you can make out my writing, you may understand why I feared for the life of this postcard.

Just another quick story, while I am on the subject of Barack Obama:

Once while flying home after visiting Mother, I had to change planes at Reagan Airport in Washington D.C.

Having about a two hour layover, I went through a few of the airport shops.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a decorative Obama plate, and purchased it immediately.

After leaving the shop I wanted to place it in my large handbag. This purse was purchased in Rome, Italy after I had been admiring it through a window across from our hotel for over a week. It was a deep lilac colour, only months old and in perfect condition.

As I placed the wrapped plate into my purse, which was by no means full…

…the zipper broke.

There was no warning, no tugging, no pulling, the zipper virtually fell apart in front of my eyes.

It was at that moment that I knew without a doubt…

…that God was a Republican.

Further, I am very, VERY thankful that Mother wasn’t there to see my purse zipper break.

She would have danced a happy dance that would have lit up the whole world.

Memories of Mother… Post 52: Unfinished Business

25 Friday Jul 2014

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You may not know this but my mother was quite adept at embroidery.

This fact, still surprises me every time I think about it.

Tablecloths were her speciality, especially Christmas ones.

I remember when I was very young she gave my paternal grandmother a beautiful tablecloth to embroider. My grandmother had gotten only one corner completed before she passed away. My grandfather give it back to me to finish.

That was back in 1976,  38 years ago. And there’s yet still one corner of the tablecloth for me to do.

Several years back, Mother gave me some of her unfinished table cloths as well.  They are still in boxes.

No doubt we all have started projects that we never seem to be able to finish.

Just think…
our unfinished business…

What would we do without it?

I firmly believe that my Mother revelled in her unfinished business.

To me, unfinished business is that there is more to be done, somewhere somehow, at some time.

Come to think of it, Mother didn’t just revel in her unfinished business, it sustained her.

Several weeks ago, a close friend asked me…

“What made your Mother tick?

That was a very good question, and I gave it a lot of thought.

After she passed away we learned that Mother had far more unfinished business than what we had anticipated.

Further, as it turns out Mother was much sicker than any of us ever thought possible.

And so I ask the question:

Is it possible that it was unfinished business that motivated her and kept her on her feet for the last several months?

Did her unfinished business include the opportunity to talk to that loving friend just one more time?

To be able to take just one more holiday?

To watch a couple of more seasons of ‘Touched By An Angel’?

The chance to purchase that one last car?

Maybe just one more toy?

To be able to say I love you to that special loved one just once more?

I would say that’s a pretty good possibility.

And so…

I am therefore thankful…

…For the unfinished business that Mother refused to finish.

It gave us more time to be together.

I am also thankful for my own finished business…

Like my unfinished knitting and table cloths…

In fact, may there always be some unfinished business in our lives for you and me to kick around.

 

Memories Of Mother… Post 51: Care Mail

24 Thursday Jul 2014

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The picture you see above is a photo of the postcard written by a good friend of mine from work.

There were many people who were good and kind enough to write out encouraging and well wishing postcards to my Mother after she received her cancer diagnosis.

Some messages are kept very simple.

Some very flattering.

Some were very silly.

And some were very funny.

All were sincere.

The card you see above I found especially touching.

Not only does he offer encouraging words to my Mother, he also refers very lovingly to his own. Never before have I known anyone who has written about their own Mother so fondly, tenderly, and with reverence.

It warmed my heart the first time I read it.

It warmed my heart when I received the postcard back right after losing Mother.

And it still warms my heart as I reminisce about her.

The postcard on the opposite side shows photographs of Montreal City… Hence the reference: “Greetings from Montreal

For those of you who can’t quite make out the handwriting my friend wrote:

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“Hello Grrr!

And greetings from Montreal!

I hope this card finds you in good spirits.

Doris told me of some health issues you’ve been having.

Know that we are pulling for you, and that in addition I have asked my Mother to pray for you.

Gerda, God really likes my Mom, so expect good things to start happening soon!!!

So until next time, keep a good thought and we’ll talk soon!

Lots of love…”

 

(Grrr was my Mother’s nickname, derived from her real name Gerda)

 

 

Memories Of Mother… Post 50: The Sailor And The Sea Monster

23 Wednesday Jul 2014

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Both Mother and Jim became part of Vermont folklore about 20 years ago.

Their claim to fame was that while out on a sailing trip on Lake Champlain, they caught sight of Champ, the Loch Ness monster of Lake Champlain.

For those of you not familiar with Vermont folklore, Lake Champlain is the home to Champ, a sea creature not unlike Scotland’s Loch Ness Monster.

As you can imagine, sightings are extremely rare. But there are accounts from witnesses who say they have without a doubt spotted it.

And so…

Yes, Mother and Jim became quite the celebrities when their story appeared in the local newspaper.

Jim even got a stint on the Vermont elementary school talk show circuit.

He really enjoyed telling the school children about how he and Mother spotted Champ while they were out on their sailboat. Champ appeared to be having a leisurely snack and a swim.

Jim explained to me what he saw:

“There was this thing floating on the water not too far ahead of us. It kind of looked like a log but it was way too big. Then I saw it’s head come up out of the water. It had a big long neck. It looked like it was eating something, because there was this long, skinny stuff hanging out of it’s mouth…. Kinda like toilet paper.”

Jim even went through the trouble of drawing me a picture of what he saw.

It only took one look for me to agree, that yes, that looked like a big old sea monster to me.

And so the story goes that Mother and Jim stood on their boat and continued to observe Champ in the water.

But then of course, mere observation was not enough for Mother.

No…

There is more to Jim’s story:

Apparently, Mother grabbed the underwater camera, handed it to Jim with the following instructions:

“Jump in the lake, swim up to Champ and take some pictures!”

Jim begged to differ, and refused her request.

He was not about to swim up to a sea monster for a photo shoot.

And quite frankly…

I don’t blame him one bit.

The situation that he happened to find himself in reminds me of a quote that goes:

“Do not meddle in the affairs of Dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup!”

I’m sure the very same applies to anyone who swims up to Champ, the Lake Champlain sea monster with camera in hand just to do a photo op!

Memories of Mother… Post 49: Pressure In The Kitchen

22 Tuesday Jul 2014

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I will never, ever cook with a pressure cooker.

Ever!

“Why?” you ask…

Because my Mother put the fear of God into me each time she cooked with her pressure cooker.

She used it almost every week to make her stuffed peppers, cabbage rolls and chicken paprikash.

Without fail, as I was growing up, each time I walked into the kitchen while she was using her pressure cooker I would receive the sternest of warnings.

She would point to the little hissing pressure regulator on top of the pressure cooker lid as it shuddered under the building steam inside the pot on the stove.

Then using her other hand she would shake her finger at me.

“DO NOT TOUCH THAT,”

…she ordered me in no uncertain terms.

When I asked her why, she replied:

“Because it will explode and everything inside that pot will be splattered all over the kitchen and ceiling.”

Chicken Paprikash all over the ceiling I thought to myself…

I don’t even like to eat the stuff, let alone have a whole pot full dripping from the ceiling over me.

How horrible is that?

Mind you, Mother’s chicken paprikash was very popular among friends and family. However, to a young ten year old girl like me, the dish had far too many onions.

How many onions did Mother always brag about putting in her chicken paprikash?

“A dozen,” she would boast.

I cannot count the number of times I heard Mother relate horror stories of exploding pressure cooker pots, all true experiences from people she personally knew.

That’s when I would make a solid effort to tune out what she was saying as she recounted the harrowing series of events that followed.

It was just too painful for me to think about.

It came to the point that I would not even enter the kitchen when Mother was cooking with her pressure cooker.

Even as an adult.

And so…

I believe it was the last time that Mother and I sat down to an exemplary meal of her perfect corned beef and cabbage, which she made using (of course) her pressure cooker…

When she suddenly asked me:

“Do you ever use a pressure cooker?”

“No…” I answered, “I’m too scared to use one.”

“Too scared?” she said sounding quite surprised as she raised her eyes up from her dinner plate to me.

“Why would you ever be afraid of using a pressure cooker?”

(Insert heavy sigh here…)