This whole blog could be about my mother. But then I wouldn’t be writing fragments; I’d be writing consistently about my mother.
There is so much to say–but I had a memory yesterday that truly is a fragment and part of a much longer story.
My mother died on June 29, seven years ago. I’d just reunited with my high school sweetheart, Bobby Friedman, and we were on the last day of our first summer vacation together the day she died. We’d made an extended car trip, starting in Fort Worth where I was Professor of English at Tarrant CountyCollege and driving together north to Mount Rushmore, then to Yellowstone where after two nights in their lodges, we drove through the Tetons to Jackson Hole and flew to Seattle–then took a ferry to Victoria, BC– Canada and after four or five glorious days, rented a car and drove to Vancouver.
Okay, so it was a dream trip–after a lifetime of mssing one another, we reunited and celebrated on our “reunion trip.” Bobby had bought a new red Solara convertible for the first few segments of our adventure and we planned to pick it back up in Wyoming and drive back to Texas together.
It would seem my mother had other ideas. She always had: she had broken us up all those years ago, the summer after my senior year. Heartbroken, I believed my true love believed me when I told him the break up was my mother’s requirement. I’d fought her for years! After all, we were both Jewish, he was pre-med, and I planned to become a Dental Hygienist, a two year program that would allow us to get married and me to earn a nice salary while he finished his training. At 17 and 19, we had a life plan, realistic goals, and a smooth, happy, loving relationship.
But Bobby, shocked and hurt, didn’t believe my mother had insisted we break up, he thought I wanted out and used her as an excuse; he went off to medical school as broken hearted as I was when I started my dental hygiene program; he married another the following year; I married another five years later. Nothing was ever right again for either of us, but neither of us knew that other one suffered. Not for over forty years.
Anyone who hears this part of our story asks: why did your mother break you up? The answers, if I ever have them, will come only after extensive writing and searching–something I’ve spent my life doing already.
For this entry, however, I must go to my mother’s funeral and the days that followed. Bobby drove home, alone, from Jackson Hole, where we’d left his car, to Houston; I flew to Harrisburg, PA where my mother and step-father had spent their final years near their youngest son Joe.
All the other brothers were already gathered by the time I arrived. My two married children met me there–Earl and Pepi, with her seven month old baby Miles, whom my mother never got to see. Pepi had planned to bring him there to meet his great grandmother the following week; she would have been semi conscious by then anyway, but at least they would have “met” in this lifetime.
I managed to put together an outfit appropiate for a funeral, “borrowed” a lovely scarf I’d brought my mother from a trip to Italy the previous summer, and drove to the funeral home.
The last time I saw Frances Alene Levy Kalman Rose was in her coffin, the first dead person I’d ever seen up close. I told my sister-in- law Jill–she looks alive. Jill assured me she wasn’t. I said: “I feel like she’s going to sit up and start talking any second.” Jill shook her head. “Touch her forehead,” she told me. I did. It was, of course, stone cold. I shed no tears, not then, not at the funeral or the graveside service that followed.
I’m not sure how many of the siblings spoke. I just remember one part of my eulogy: “She always wanted what was best for us. And she always seemed to know exactly what that was.”
I was shocked when the audience laughed.
Such a loaded comment–especially having just returned from the reunion trip with Bobby. And yet, I had not realized the underlying meaning of my words, though people who knew nothing of my story, discerned the irony.
The following week my daughter and I spent cleaning out the townhouse, shipping boxes to siblings of memorabilia they couldn’t take home themselves, shipping some things to ourselves. There wasn’t much stuff, but enough to take some thought and planning. We had to hang out in Pennsylvania that week anyway; Pepi was due to be in a wedding in Philadelphia over the 4th of July, and I had promised to play “nanny” while she and her husband James attended the various events.
We rented a van and drove on the turnpike, met James at the airport and continued to the hotel.
Two things happened that belong in this post. First, on the day of the wedding, there was a fire in the kitchen, and we all had to evacuate. Exciting? Sure. The bride appeared in jean shorts and her veil, trailed by her entourage of hairdressers and make up artists. Joe, Meriellyn, and Evan had met us there for the weekend and they helped care for little Miles during the evacuation.
Early that evening, while Pepi and James were at the wedding, I took Miles for a stroll around the nearby park–a square filled with walkers and other strollers. No sooner had we crossed the street and entered the square, a butterfly landed on the stroller. Lovely, I thought. I watched, expecting it to fly away with the first bump, but the butterfly remained firmly attached to the stroller, facing Miles. We circled the park several times; the butterfly held fast.
“Mama,” I said. “It’s you, isn’t it.” I felt my eyes tear for the first time. “You came to see Miles, didn’t you? He’s beautiful. Perfect.” The butterfly fluttered its wings, but held fast to the stroller until we went back to the hotel.
Comments Invited: Do you have mother memories you wish to share? Ironic moments? Serendipity? Synchronicities? Lost loves? Reunions?
I love this Miriam. It is so beautiful and ironic. Timing is everything! I am not finished with myself either!
Thanks Judy. We’re all works in progress.
I’m so glad you let me know you are doing this – it will be nice to keep up with you this way. I love the “fragment” idea and I love reading you…looking forward to more!
By the way, my father appears often, since he passed away, in the form of a single red male cardinal. I always say, “Hi Daddy,” out loud and move through my day feeling the comfort of his hello. It is interesting how we know. We just know.
Love you, Mir.
Absolutely! The same way we “knew” we were meant to be friends the first time I heard you sing at Borders in Dallas.
This is a general commend in reflection of Miriam’s recollections. These days we are told by far too many people to live in the “now” and to forget the past. Of course this is rather silly. We pay a great price to finally harvest the rich
bounty of a life. As we move toward Omega we should enjoy the richness. There is a good reason why our most salient memories are positive and happy ones.