Alma, I miss you, too!

06/14/2006

I have written a little about my dad in past postings, so it is now appropriate, I suppose, to write something of my mother.  This is a really tough subject for me.  My mother, at least the one I would like to remember and pay tribute to here, ceased to exist a long, long time ago.  The Alma Laura that lingers in my mind these days was the one who was torturously tormented, easily addled and mostly confused for the last ten to fifteen years she was alive.  She died Memorial Day weekend 1997; she was 90-years old. 

Mother suffered from the insidious effects of dementia.  Her short term memory was gone.  She often asked the same questions or said the same things over and over every few minutes.  I do not recall her calling me by name at any time during the last five years of her life.  “Life” is not exactly a good word to use for the world or dimension where she lived.  Her days where endless: She was always hungry and wouldn’t eat, she always thought it was time to go to bed and once there time to get up.  She would want my 92-year old dad to take her for a ride in the car, only to ask why they were going out and how long they would be.  My last mental picture of her is of her sitting on the sofa in her home weeping, as her face was buried in her hands, rocking back and forth pleading with God-only-knows who, “What are we going to do?  What are we going to do?” She was never at peace until the day she died.

Mom and Dad lived in an apartment/condo.  Dad purchased the condo so they would have a place to live all on one floor.  He didn’t relish mother trying to navigate steps, especially with both of them “getting up in age.” It was there my mother passed away and her agony ended.  For me, her passing was bittersweet, and it left me pissed off at God.

My mom did not have a glamorous life.  Her dad was a Methodist minister up until his death in 1945.  She and her three sisters and two brothers were raised in a Christian environment, often moving from church to church and sometimes even living in the church because a house was not available.  Her maternal grandfather was a preacher, as was her oldest brother.  My family is riddled with Methodist preachers, and I know my mother had hoped I would take that path, as well.  I think she recognized the bullshitter – though she would never have used the term - in me (and it being a requisite trait for a good preacher) believed I might fit the mold.  No way, Jose!!!  I went into sales, instead.  The same traits are requisite in sales and much more suited to my particular form of standup-philosophy. .

Anyhow, the mother I remember from the distant past is the one I so wish had lived until 1997.  This woman was pious to a fault.  She was a Christian’s Christian.  She was a wonderful mother, although she sort of screwed up her kids with her niceness.  She loved us dearly, but saddled us with some beliefs that, frankly, have not served us well as adults.  We kids were never allowed to argue or fight.  It was simply not condoned in our house, and it is one of the things instilled in me that caused me issues later in my life.  But, still, the five of us, now ages fifty-eight to seventy-five are doing okay and are in relatively good health – at least we are still breathing.

Mom wrote poetry in her younger days.  She had an ability to weave a story.  She and Dad were very active in the church, as were we kids - by force.  She used to say she “never worked a day in her life.” What she meant was she had never worked a day outside of the house.  Truth is, with five of us at home, she never stopped working.

My parents were not very demonstrative.  We were not raised as a touchy, feely family.  I don’t recall my parents verbally expressing the love they held for one another, though I know it was there.  You could see it in the way they made eye contact and the crooked little smile and chuckle my mother exhibited sometimes when my dad was close to her. They were married in 1928 and lived happily together for sixty-nine years.  I can’t recall her ever saying “I love you” either to any of my brothers, sisters or me.  She showed us in so many ways, and in so many ways we got the message.  I suppose their generation just didn’t make a big deal out of the words.  Toward the end of her life my mother did become more demonstrative; however, it wasn’t from the heart of Alma, but moreover the being that snatched her mind away. 

Mom wasn’t much of a cook.  Any meat or vegetables she prepared were cooked beyond wisdom.  Veggies were reduced to mush and meat was cooked dry.  She couldn’t understand Italian food, didn’t see how anyone could make a meal of spaghetti – she said she could see it as a side dish.  She never ate pizza and definitely no Chinese.  She loved sharp cheddar cheese and often her lunch would be a slice of bread wrapped around a hunk of cheddar and a cup of coffee.  She also thought eating out at McDonald’s was the pinnacle of epicurean delight – coffee and fish sandwich with a few fries.  This was heaven for mom.

One time, I suppose I may have been about ten or so, I had an appointment with the dentist, one inappropriately named “Dr. Coward.” Just about the time we were to leave for the appointment I got the bright idea to climb a tree in the backyard and lay low, hoping I could avoid the chair by hiding in the leaf-covered branches.  It didn’t work.  After calling me several times Mother finally yelled out the back door that it was too late and we would have to go another time.  I came down out of the tree and was immediately nabbed and carted off to see Dr. Coward.

I remember very well the “time” I told my mother to “shut up.” I probably don’t need to explain the aftermath of that unfortunate mistake on my part or my parts.  Suffice it to say it never occurred again.

September 16, 1963, as she and my dad dropped me off at Ft. Holabird in Baltimore for my first day of military service, she had tears in her eyes as they drove off.  I was nineteen and it was the first time I had ever seen this strong woman show that kind of emotion.

I haven’t thought about my mom for some time.  The body in the casket was a mere shell of the woman who held me when I hurt and loved me just because.  I didn’t cry at her funeral.  Perhaps now I can.  The time is right. 

This has been a good exercise for me, and that is all I have to say about that.

This family portrait was taken about 1918.  My mother is standing on the right-hand side as you look at the photograph.  She would have been about fourteen when this was taken.  Everyone in the photo has passed away.  My grandfather died in 1945 and his two sons in the 1950s.  All five women in the picture had some form of dementia - some worse than others.  My mother is the only one who was survived by her husband.