A Flower for Me Moms on Mom's Day
Tomorrow is Mother's Day and that day conjurs up a lot of happy memories for me and how fortunate was I - I didn't have just one mom - I had two. My natural mother's name is Louise and my step mother's name is Alice and although Alice mostly raised me and they were very different women in appearance and mannerisms, they both treated me very good over all - any spankings or verbal blasts were mostly well warranted - let's just say I wasn't always the ideal little curly-headed boy. Like my dad, both my moms have passed away - I've been an orphan for a few years now. However, although they're gone, Mother's Day is still a special day to me, after all, the mothers' of my children are just as special - for someone who never really wanted any kids when I was younger - how I wound up with five girls and one boy is beyond me - so happy Mom's Day to My Special Moms.
Misty, our little white Maltese/Bijon dog died a few years ago and the whole family, needless to say, was extremely sad. Sooner or later, everyone experiences a death in the family; even a pet, often times being an integral part. Each of us, although we hug and try to comfort one another when a death occurs, we eventually have to deal with it in our own way. Being quite a bit older than my wife Sarah and her two daughters, death has visited me on numerous occasions – many close relatives and friends having passed on – some of them very tragic and sudden. What I’ve discovered to help me through these sad and emotional times is a little camera, which I keep stored away inside my mind. Over the years, it’s snapped many photos of people I've cherished and those little moments which were captured can be replayed whenever I want to relive that time with them again. Although sometimes the tears flow when I relive those moments, there are far more smiles and I sometimes even break out in loud laughter.
My father and mother divorced when I was very young. Since I didn’t live with my mother, only saw her on holidays while growing up, it was always somewhat of an emotional experience for me to say good-bye when the time came for me to return home. Unlike now, with everyday use of emails and cell phones, for me, the main source of communication was primarily hand-written letters, especially if any long distance was involved and this was how I mainly kept in touch with my mother.
One day, after my mother’s death, while I was going through some of my personal stuff, I came across a letter I’d written to her and for one reason or another had forgotten to post it. After reading the letter, I was prompted to write her once again as I visualized some of the moments my little mind’s-eye camera had captured of her. I guess in a way, this letter is my way of dealing with her death, not so much in saying a final good-bye but perhaps more importantly, hopefully saying hello to her sometime in the future.
Dear Mom
I don’t know where the time has gone; a great many years have passed since we were last in touch. It’s not that you haven’t been on my mind mom nor missed, because seldom does a day go by that I don’t think about you and what you mean to me.
I remember when I was just a boy, five years of age; I went to live with my dad (something unusual for that era, since the kids mainly remained with their mothers rather than the fathers after a divorce). Although my new surroundings would soon be very different from the one room log cabin we were living at Woodpecker, BC, I’ve never forgotten that little cabin or the day my dad arrived. I was outside playing in the melting snow, the narrow roadway leading to the cabin, muddy and rutted, when I saw my dad, wearing a heavy overcoat and a cocked fedora, crouch down, smile and begin clapping his hands, beckoning me towards him. I remember feeling very happy as I ran towards him and how good it felt when he lifted me up in his strong arms. Of course I was very young and unaware of the reason he came, most likely just thought he was coming home from work after being away for a long time, which was often the case. It felt strange later that day, when my dad and I were on a Greyhound bus destined for Vancouver when he said, “You’ll have a new mother and you can call her mom if you like? (What was wrong with the mom I had, I wondered?). Also, you’ll have two new sisters to play with.”
To this day, I can still see my step mom and her two girls standing in the living room beside the front door when we walked into the house. They were all smiling but I could still feel the awkwardness of the situation.
You have no idea how much I missed you mom and the many nights I silently cried myself to sleep over the years. But what I remember most is feeling so excited when I came home from school and found an envelope addressed to me; of course a shiny dime or a quarter always arrived with the letter. To be honest mom, during those early years of growing up, I’m not sure if your letters or the money I received with them gave me more incentive to write back, but regardless, we exchanged many letters over my childhood years and beyond.
Although we never lived together again, I want you to know mom that I loved you very much and the excitement I felt when summer holidays arrived was indescribable. Because it was then that we went to my grand folk’s wilderness homestead along the Fraser River, which wasn’t too far from the little cabin where we had once lived together. I loved those summer interludes, tromping through the forest with a .22 rifle in my hand, grouse and rabbits fluttering and scurrying for cover. It still amazes me to this day, how I stomped about with no substantial trails to follow and never got lost – maybe the reason was King, the part collie dog accompanying me; he of course knew the way home and I probably just naturally followed along. I was basically a Vancouver city boy by then – hardly a country lad. I can’t say I ever felt worried wandering around in the bush except maybe the time I came across a bog because the black mud and water was still dripping off the branches and leaves - it had obviously just been used as a bathtub that hot summer day to cool off a big, old bear. I remember being very alert; eyes and ears wide open as I carefully made my way back to the big, two-story log house overlooking the river. Yes, being with you those summers mom were some of the best times of my life and if it were at all possible, I would love to return, if only for one day.
I also remember when I was a young boy around the age of eight, dad telling me that you were in Vancouver and staying at a hotel. When we went to visit you, it seemed to take forever to get there, transferring from one streetcar to the next. And I have to admit; I was really amazed to see such a huge hotel overlooking the undulating, well-manicured, green lawns that surrounded it; I must have thought you were really rich. I have no recollection of what was said during our short visit, sitting on what seemed to be a park bench under a large shady tree but you have no idea how shocked I was, when as a young man, I came to visit you there again. This time, a bus instead of a streetcar stopped in front of the same wooden park bench and extensive green lawns. However, it wasn’t a hotel where you were staying, but Riverview/Essondale, a place for mentally disturbed people and for me, it was like a giant step back into time. I was troubled to learn from your psychiatrist that you had been there many times before, and sadly, as the years went by, how often you would return.
I don’t recall specifically when I began taking mental snapshots, something special to hold onto, but over the many years of visiting you mom, I took many. To this day when I bring them into view, some bring a smile to my face and often as not, others bring tears as well. Now, that I’m definitely in the autumn of my years, only footsteps away from the snowline, I still think about and cherish our times together. Not sure if I am just like you, which you once mentioned, but mom, without a doubt there is a big part of you that is a big part of me. You certainly had a wicked smile and how your vivid blue eyes sparkled; even with age, you were still a beautiful woman to behold. People often used to tell me that I look younger than my age and I guess I have you to thank for that trait.
I’m not sure if you know how I’ve been doing over the years, and to be honest mom, at times, I haven't been that certain myself. Some would say and some have even related that I don’t count in society – perhaps living on the edge and not having similar or so-called normal endeavours has something to do with it. Being an artist, I like to think of myself as a rather colourful person, even if I am a wee bit of a reject. Not sure if my personality or somewhat different growing up patterns over the years has been a problem but I’ve definitely made some bad choices and mistakes. Perhaps, like you, I’m somewhat of a free spirit marching out of step; at least that’s my excuse for being a touch different.
Like I mentioned a little earlier in the letter about taking mental snapshots – some of the most amazing ones were taken before and after we left Nanaimo early one morning and proceeded driving to Prince George, where you were living at the time. I sometimes wonder if you remember visiting me and my family after you quit taking your medication, which was meant to keep you mentally stabilized. I can still see you when you somehow magically transformed from being a paranoid, vicious cave-like woman wielding a chunk of firewood like a club into a sophisticated and charming southern belle, complete with a southern accent. You promised me a mansion and oil wells that night; even servants. It was wonderful to see your happy smile and twinkling blue eyes as you twirled and danced to some imaginary music that only you could hear; you seemed so sprightly agile and oblivious to your surroundings, it was as if you were young again; your prominent limp, aches and pains miraculously cured.
To me, the drive back to Prince George will always be a memorable highlight and to this day, I still thank my lucky stars that we actually survived the journey, at least as far as we got anyway. The scene you caused on the ferry ride to Vancouver was slightly tamer than at the Chilliwack gas station but when we arrived at Hope - well, what can I say - you were really getting out of hand, much to the chagrin of the waitress and the restaurant customers - I never knew you could swear like a beer-swilling lumberjack. During our cat and mouse drive along the Fraser canyon traveling at dangerously high speeds at one moment and then at a snail’s crawl along the highway’s gravel shoulder, at times bumper to bumper with a blue van, which you were convinced was out to get us; I wonder if you recall saying, “Leonard, I’m surprised you’re not asleep; you usually fall asleep when you’re in the car.” If you only knew mother, without a doubt, it was probably the scariest and weirdest car trip I ever experienced; I expect my fingerprints are still on the dashboard and anything else that I could hold onto. How we managed to get as far as Cache Creek I’ll never know but that stop proved to be your starring moment of our journey! Instead of the people in the restaurant giving you a standing ovation – I heard snide remarks like, “Look at that lady; I’ll bet she’s drunk,” and “She’s whacko!” I’m sorry mom, but up until you threw yourself down on the hot pavement in front of the semi that was attempting to leave the parking lot, I was still on your side. When I bent over you on that summer day and looked down at you lying on the hot pavement, your blonde hair glowing, eyes mischievously glinting in the sunlight and your arms defiantly crossed over your chest, I had no other alternative except to call for an ambulance. If I’d been able to drive a car, I most likely would have simply dragged you into your car, tied you into the seat and then drove you home. When we arrived at the Ashcroft Hospital via ambulance (they didn’t need a siren, your screams were loud enough to clear the highway) and before a doctor was able to stick a huge needle into your arm filled to the brim with a sedative to knock you out, you managed to cause yet another huge scene. This was perhaps your crowning encore – I have no idea how that old man struggling with his wheelchair felt when this wild and crazy woman suddenly leaped onto his lap and planted a big wet kiss on lips – perhaps he couldn’t believe his luck at his age that some hot woman still found him desirable.
After that wild episode in the hospital, the years just seemed to slip by; I’m sorry I didn’t see you very often or write as many letters. My life had suddenly gone from being busy to just downright chaotic – my graphic business, properties (including my home) and 17-year marriage seemed to quickly vanish. After the experience of being almost a millionaire and then living on a sailboat, I’m sure, must have had some sort of an impact on my mental condition. A series of girlfriends also seemed to slip through my fingers as easily as sand through an hour glass, which probably didn’t help either. Through all my losses, mostly brought on by my immature attitude, I also realized that things weren’t going that well for you either, your physical condition was deteriorating – you often complained about an increasing pain in your hip and having difficulty walking at times. When you were eventually diagnosed with terminal lung and bone cancer, I believe I went into self-denial. Although dad had passed away on Christmas day almost 25 years earlier – now maybe you too – this just wasn’t acceptable. I could scarce believe that while I was hoping things would get better for you, your husband was suddenly diagnosed with cancer as well.
I remember when I came for a short visit, I was quite shocked by your deterioration; how thin you had become. However, even though your husband was in worse condition, I was very impressed and touched with how he fussed over you – it was plain to see that he was just as much in love with you as he probably was when the two of you first met. Although it’s kind of strange thinking back, still to this day, I sometimes wonder how you really felt about him – if you truly loved him. Do you remember when you baked him his favourite chocolate cake but neglected to tell him that the icing was made from Ex-lax (chocolate laxative)? You sure giggled when you told me; you’d never seen a man run to the toilet so fast or so often. Shortly after I returned home, I received a phone call from my sister informing me that her dad was on his deathbed but it wasn’t necessary for me to come and see him one last time because he was basically incoherent and probably wouldn’t know who I was. Although I never once thought of him as a step-dad, I did regard him as a very good friend – you know how much we enjoyed playing Scrabble over the years.
I still remember helping out with your husband’s funeral arrangements and thinking how he looked so peaceful lying in his coffin. The funeral director had placed his well-worn, somewhat crushed, brown felt fedora alongside his bald head and he almost looked as if he was suddenly going to open his eyes and say good-bye. The last mental snapshot I have of that sad time was when you watched me being driven off to the bus station – even though I knew you were in severe pain and how difficult it was for you to stand in front of your picture window; I can still see your affectionate smile as you waved good-bye.
Because of your deteriorating condition, the cancer quickly spreading, my brother, sister and I decided that since I was just sort of floating on a sailboat, single without any real obligations, it would be best if I looked after you during your final days. Strange, even then, I was still in denial; I figured you would somehow miraculously rally and regain your health. I found it very difficult watching you gradually grow weaker and weaker. It was great that my sister helped out along with some palliative-care women who visited every few days.
I don’t suppose you remember me lighting your cigarettes or your bed catching fire a couple of times when you fell asleep with a lit smoke in your hand! You know, I almost started smoking again after so many years because I’d often enjoy an occasional cigarette along with my cold beer when I took a break after digging in the garden under the hot summer sun. For the most part, I’m sure the cigarette was purely therapeutic; it wasn’t easy watching you die mom.
I guess you had your reasons why you really didn’t talk very much while laying in your bed, which I had moved downstairs into the living room so you could see the kids playing in the park across the street and the mountains in the distance. Fortunately, you weren’t in much pain, just not very talkative. Even though things seemed to be steadily digressing, I wasn’t surprised at your tenacity when much to the astonishment of the caregivers you said, “Leonard, take me to the park. I want to have a shower.” You were quite a sight dressed in your long white nightgown and black rubber boots as I half carried you outside to the stairs leading down to the front yard. I guess you must have realized, since you were already out of breath after just a few steps, that you didn’t have the strength to walk across the street to the park because you said, “I’m tired; can we just sit on the steps for a bit?” I can honestly tell you mom, it felt real good sitting on the doorstep with my arm around you, even though I knew it would be the very last time you’d be going outside.
The hot summer days passed slowly; I kept lighting your cigarettes and working in the garden. As the seeds began growing and poking their heads out of the warm earth, I think I was fooling myself that the nourishment and care I was providing for them would somehow carry over to you and your bony old body would suddenly begin to heal. However, on the morning of July 3, 1991, while my sister and our aunt were visiting, my aunt yelled to me while I was pulling weeds in the garden, “Hurry! Come inside! I think your mom is going!”
It was heartbreaking to watch you lying there gasping for a breath of air, your tired emaciated body struggling to survive. When you finally became silent; unmoving; your mouth gaping for one final breath of air, I looked into your bright blue eyes, which were still wide open. I hope you didn’t mind mom but I thought it only fitting that I should close your eyes for the very last time, especially since you watched me open mine for the very first time.
Well mom, I’m sad to say, this is the last letter I’ll be writing to you, even though I know how important our letter correspondence has meant to us. I’ve no idea what the postage will cost or where I should send this letter, so I think I’ll just hold onto it and perhaps one day in the future, I may get the chance to sit down beside you on a door step across from a playground and look into your sparkling, vivid blue eyes and read it to you.
As always and forever, your loving son…Leonard xoxoxoxoxoxo
Mom's are great; quite possibly the greatest people in the world. We may not always agree with them but for the most part they hold our interests at heart and should never be taken for granted, that they will always be with us. I miss my moms on this Mother's Day - no more fixing them toast and jam in bed like when I was a boy, no more giving them chocolates and bouquets of flowers when I became older and especially, no more hugs. All I can do now when Mother's Day arrives is say, "I love you mom" and wonder if they hear my heart felt words.
