Memories of Mom

Every year around mid October, Mom would tell me the date of the Christmas Bazaar at the senior center, ask if I could take her and possibly stay to watch her table when she needed a break. 

Unless I had a commitment I couldn’t get out of, I’d say yes not just because I knew how important it was to her, but because it was fun.

I loved seeing all the stuff she made. In later years there were fewer sweaters but plenty of hats, scarves, pot holders, doilies, dish scrubbies, holiday decorations, and of course the stuffed animals. The toys were her most popular item by far and it wasn’t just the kids who loved them. Adults loved them. Mom loved them.

Mom was shy, but when she was behind her table, another side of her came out. She’d perk right up to greet customers, giving them her full attention, chatting and answering questions. She came across as confident. A good salesperson. People often commented that her prices were too low. I don’t think this was due to undervaluing her work. She never had a lot of money and assumed others didn’t either. If some kid was begging their mom for a toy mom would give them a deal. It wasn’t about profit, it was more about providing a little joy. 

That said, she really did enjoy spending the money she made. Mom loved to shop.

I took her Christmas shopping at least once every year. She’d buy herself stuff if she had enough money. She loved getting new clothes, new earrings, and new purses. Especially purses. It seemed like every six months she’d come up with some reason–or several reasons– why she needed a new purse.

I’d gently point out that the one she had was fine.

Finally she confessed that need had nothing to do with it. She wanted a purse so why shouldn’t she buy it?

Put that way, I had to agree with her.

It’s your money mom, if it makes you happy just buy the damned purse.

Those trips were fun.

We’d buy peppermint mochas and go to Fred Meyer, K-mart, Target. She always had a list. She really wanted to buy something for everyone–spouses and grandkids and great grands, but some years she only had enough money for her kids.

The boys she’d say, were the hardest to buy for. The boys, being grown men of course. One year she chose inexpensive wallets for her sons. I remember thinking they probably don’t need new five dollar wallets, Mom, but I didn’t say anything, because I knew need had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t about material things, it was about the giving.

Mom liked to go to bed early. I remember her complaining once, that we kids–teenagers at the time– always got talkative late at night. Well, of course we did. With so many people living in the house it was the only time we could have her to ourselves. She was a good listener.

Mom would listen to me rattle on about every little thing that was happening in my life, hear all my whiny complaints about work, etc. Sometimes she’d have useful advice to offer, but mostly she didn’t. Still, I always felt better after talking to her. The listening was enough. 

I can’t imagine feeding a family of eight along with some extras, every single day for decades. I used to stand next to the stove asking what’s for dinner? When will it be done? 

The answer was always the same. “Dinner is always at 5:30.”

It wasn’t always on time, of course, but to this day it remains the family joke when anyone asks when dinner is.

Mom made Congo bars on her birthday. Spaghetti and meatballs on Christmas Eve, and pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving and Christmas. The pie didn’t always come out right but she’d serve it anyway, with apologies.

I have this image of Mom in the kitchen on Chehalem street, strumming her fingernails on the cupboard door, trying to figure out how to put together a meal from what was or wasn’t there, saying, “Oh sugar” 

The story I heard is that she switched from oh shit to oh sugar after I spoke my first word. Yeah, you guessed it. Little me, so proud to know a real word, going around saying, “shit, shit, shit.”

Mom’s favorite books were The Dragon Riders of Pern. She read them many times. Same as with the Harry Potter series. She liked fantasy and magic. She also liked Harlequin romances, preferring the ones with suspense because there was more to them. They were simple books with happy endings. She read to escape the darker side of life, not to explore it. 

Mom read to us regularly when we were little. I remember sitting on her lap, asking her to read The House that Jack Built over and over again. I have a clear memory of Mom taking us to the public library and the wonderful smell of books. I remember that the walk through the adult section with its impossibly tall bookshelves was a bit intimidating, but also intriguing. The children’s section was in the basement. I remember it being bright and warm. I remember Gary being there, helping me pick out books. I’m pretty sure he suggested Henry Higgins by Beverly Cleary–and she became a favorite author.

 Deerfield had shelves full of books for the residents to borrow. Mom would put them in her walker and take them back to her room one or two at a time. Because of the short term memory loss she couldn’t really read them anymore, but she liked having a book with her at all times. It was like a security blanket. I guess that’s where I get it. 

When the books piled up in her room, I’d suggest returning them to the shelves but Mom insisted that they were all hers.

When we cleaned out her room, there were two very full boxes of books.

Mom wasn’t into Bingo, and didn’t get into the other happenings at Deerfield, but she did make some friends there. The most memorable was John, a gay man with Alzheimer’s. I met him when I wheeled mom into the dining room looking around for a table. It reminded me of a high school cafeteria, everyone sitting with their friends in their separate little cliques. And there was John waving and pointing at the chair across from him saying, “Miss Rita always sits right here. Right here.”

John entertained us with stories and jokes all through the meal. It wasn’t hard to understand why she liked him.

Before Deerfield, and before the senior center in Newberg, there was the Sunnycrest Ladies Club. I don’t remember how often they met, and I couldn’t tell you what they did there, but I know that going was important to Mom. She made several friends there. Her friendship with Martha lasted long after the club stopped meeting. Martha would drive Mom to the senior center. I remember asking Mom how old Martha was and her saying, “She’s over ninety, but don’t tell your dad that, he won’t want me getting in a car with her.”

Her most memorable friend from the Ladies Club was Bea. Bea lived just down the road from us. I don’t remember her seeming all that old–she may have only been in her sixties when the Alzeimers kicked in. I remember mom telling me that Bea would attend the meetings but was acting odd, saying inappropriate things and dropping to the floor to do leg lifts in the middle of a meeting. 

It got so bad that she didn’t make sense anymore.

She’d come to our front door saying, “Wop, wop wop.”

Mom interpreted. “She’s asking me if I want to go for a walk.”

Mom was kind and patient with Bea, no matter how sick she got. Mom remained her friend to the end.

Here are few of Mom’s favorite sayings:

Leave well enough alone.

Don’t make mountains out of molehills.

If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.

Mom was all about keeping the peace.

The time has finally come for Mom to be at peace.