My mother died on April 20, 1983. She was 62. I was 34. The oldest of my three sons was 7.
A lot happened after that. My dad remarried shortly after to a woman who loved and cared for him in his declining years until he died at the age of 91. My oldest son is turning 40. He has three children, the oldest of whom is 7. I have four grandchildren and more probably on the way.
My mom’s death and the life she lived came flooding back to me when I looked at the laminated card of her obit in the New Albany Tribune. It comes up in my calendar book every year at this time of the year. I remember there was light snow at Wrigley as I hurriedly drove to southern Indiana, shortly after my sister telephoned that morning, “She’s gone.”
I have very few photographs of my mother. I have no recordings of her voice. None of her friends, siblings or relatives are alive. I have only memories, and those memories are limited to when I lived at home with her until I was 18. Then I moved away to college, law school and Oak Park. I would visit her at the holidays, but that happy chaos was not a time for reflective, one-on-one conversation.
So I am left with snippets and partial, random recollections of her. Thirty-three years is a long time. She went to a one-room schoolhouse in Mayo, Kentucky. She flew off with a stunt pilot she met at the Mercer County Fair and got married and divorced in very short order. She was often sick. Bananas were a diet staple. She was mildly agoraphobic. She was a great mom and homemaker. She saved me from deserved whippings from my dad. She was quiet, kind, sweet and fearful.
Her early death cut off any chance for me to have any meaningful conversation with her as adult son to his mother. So many questions about her beliefs, aspirations and wisdom were never even asked. Why did you marry Dad? How did you feel when you miscarried? Was it hard to get by on the $70 Dad counted out for you on payday? What do you want me to remember about you when you are gone? Was I a good son? Are you happy?
It makes me sad, even angry. I suppose it is strangely consoling to reflect that a hundred years from death, nobody remembers anything about you. Everyone who knew you is dead, and the detritus of you has been lost or converted to landfill. You are reduced to an entry on a family tree.
Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
