“What you remember is not what they think you will remember”

I am currently reading “Annie Freeman’s Fabulous Traveling Funeral” by Kris Radish. I’m about three quarters of the way through it. I almost didn’t make it past the first chapter – some crazy banter about a woman morning the loss of her favorite bra – but I’m oh so glad I did. Every couple of pages there is an amazing line, or paragraph, or thought, or reflection. It will make for some interesting blogging, I think.

So for today, I’d like to share this from page 14:

Katherine thinks then for just a moment about her mother and she has the same pangs of regret, of missing, of loss, of suffocating sorrow. She allows herself to slip an inch down the wall, humbled even now, all the months, eight of them, following her mother’s death. The grieving, she knows, never ends, and all that will remain is the miracle of love. And she holds on to that miracle as if to save her life for the time it takes her to steady herself, to smell, without the reality of it, her mother’s scent – a fine mix of Dial soap, some ancient Avon product, garlic and Tide – her mother always used Tide.

“What you remember,” Katherine reminds herself, “is not what they think you will remember. It is often not.”

What memories are we making with the people we know right now, today? We usually think about making memories with the big things – the trips to Disneyland or the monumental Thanksgiving feast each year. But when you think about someone close to you, who you’ve lost, what is it you remember about them?

When I think about my mom, who has been dead for over 14 years, it is all the little things that I think about. Bits and pieces of the woman she was.

When we lived in Germany and we would go to church every Sunday, I remember her smelling of White Shoulders when we would get in the car. She would be dressed in some amazing suit and high heels and smell absolutely heavenly. I remember nothing of church itself, can’t even picture it, but I remember what my mom smelled like.

She was my Brownie Girl Scout leader and when I was in third grade we had a sleepover at the scout camp on base. We got to make French toast in the morning. And I remember her teaching us the songs, Annie May and Sweetly Sings the Donkey – getting down on her hands and kicking her feet up behind her like a donkey. She always did all the motions to all the songs – and we sang a lot of them.

When we moved back to the states and went back to the small town she had grown up in, we went into a store and a few minutes later we hear from the back room, “I’d know that laugh anywhere – that has to be Lois!” She was known for her huge smile and hearty laugh. My friends were always saying that I had the nicest mom, and she was. I attribute my evolution in parenting to her excellent example – I didn’t have much to overcome.

I remember eating green grapes together at the lake house while watching the impeachment of Richard Nixon. And I remember Santa bringing me things that my parents couldn’t afford and wouldn’t buy for me. I fully believed until I was 13 and my sisters finally couldn’t stand it anymore and told me. I still believe.

When my sisters went off to college I remember one time when they came home and we were playing charades. My mom got SO embarrassed because while she was pantomiming, my sister yelled “Boobs”. My mom was red for what seemed like hours!

I remember waking to the sound of her sewing machine, the always full of homemade cookies cookie jar, her playing the organ, and singing or humming hymns all the rest of the day on Sunday. Oh, and the amazing craft closet, full of wonderful supplies.

Bekka & Gramma feed the ducks
When I was much older and had Bekka, my mom moved to Spokane and worked as a live in care giver for a woman with MS so she could be closer to Bekka. She LOVED being a Gramma. She would watch Bekka as often as possible, and we would go visit her several times a week. She made Bekka the cutest clothes. She had had her own business custom sewing since she had retired from the bank, and she especially loved making clothes for toddler girls. They were always comfortable (never anything scratchy), and completely easy care. Cute dresses with matching diaper covers and hats were her specialty. Bekka’s first word was “hat” because she always had one, and it always matched what she was wearing.

We moved to Houston three months before she died of ovarian cancer. My sister called to let me know that mom wasn’t doing well and that we should come early for our visit we were planning. She died while Bekka and I were in baggage claim at the Spokane Airport, and I fully believe that she didn’t want us to see her at the end - that she wanted especially Bekka to remember her alive, not dying. When we got to the hospital the nurse was completely distraught. We ended up comforting HER, because she had lost a favored patient. She kept saying, “I can’t believe she’s gone, she was joking with the attendant on the way down to radiation.” Well, I could have told her ahead of time that my mom would go out joking. It was just not in her to be all solemn and depressed. To her way of thinking there was just no point in it. I don’t really remember her memorial service, but I do remember part of her burial, the part where all the little ones were running around laughing and playing. They were the first to throw dirt in the hole and were so happy to do so. It was exactly what she would have wanted and there is no way we could have planned it, it just happened. Joyful children celebrating life.

Other than maybe Santa and the sewing, I don’t think my mom anticipated me remembering any of these things, but they are the things I remember about her most readily. This makes me wonder, “What do I do that my kids will remember most?”

I invite you to list some of the things you remember about your mom in the comments section.

Oh, and I hope you read this post as a joyful post! We do not morn death, rather we celebrate life on this Journey of Joy.