Mary Elizabeth Werff Jessee
On what would have been her 71st birthday
Date: Thurs, 12 Feb 1998
From: djessee@eisl.eis.com.eg Subject: On her birthday ...
To: CatJessee@Juno.com,
SJessee@home.com, Jessee.S.R-@postal.essd.northgrum.com SuBach@Juno.com Cc: Andre
_Jessee@Brewsternet.com Mary Elizabeth Washing dishes - Of course we all took turns helping with the dishes. We could choose whether to wash or to dry. But the beauty of the exercise was to talk about any and everything. It as relaxed, not threatening, and intimate. It was not purposeful. We didn’t set out to talk about anything, but it happened.
Visiting home during college - She knew that we thought that important things were going on within ourselves, with our lives, and she listened. And spent a lot of time listening. And she didn’t roll her eyes back into her head as she could have done. But interestingly listened, and supported.
Mizpah Mission - She gave of herself a lot. She spent time and was a real colleague for people at the mission. It was awkward for Dad, but she brought him along a bit.
Under thorn tree - When I was playing doctor with the neighbor boy David, his mom told my mom and she was very perturbed. She took me to the basement with Dad’s belt, took down my pants and really laid into me. I must have been 5 or 6.
Correspondence courses, the typewriter - Of she hadn’t gone to college. I never seemed to cause her problems, but I think she aspired to go. She signed up for correspondence courses. Don’t remember which ones, but I think freshman English and maybe chemistry. I believe that is when she got a typewriter, from her brother of course to type up her college papers.
Explaining Dad’s concerns, worries - She did a good job of explaining to the kids a little bit about what made Dad tick. She explained one time that Dad was very concerned about us should he die and that he had bought life insurance. And she explained that Westinghouse (rest in peace) wanted him to move into management, but he resisted because he enjoyed what he was doing and because he didn’t want work to cut into time with his kids. And when she was dying, she explained that he really did need to be married ... to someone.
Sewing machine - Of course she bought a sewing machine for Katyna when we got married. She new that we all knew how to use one and that it would be good for Katyna to learn too.
Her brother - Bob was a good brother. He would tool over on his bicycle on Saturday mornings to spend a little time with us while Queenie slumbered. I can’t picture them talking for some reason, but I know that they did. My poor feeble brain.
Sewing matching dresses - I probably remember this mostly because photos reinforced it, but she did do three matching dresses for Easter, at least one year. Purple and green. No?
Singing in church - She knew that she couldn’t keep on pitch, but that didn’t slow her down much. She very much enjoyed singing in church. We’d like to crawl under the pews, but she persisted. Dad balanced things out. He could indeed sing, although he got a bit enthusiastic at times too.
Deacon in church - Dad was first but then she became too. Both did a good job. Dad took recordings around. I remember Mom more with flowers. Don’t know why.
Girl scouts - This is part of what she was doing a Mizpah, right? Did a lot a work in support of the Council. She was a real believer. And I think she was much appreciated.
Not fearing death - Of course she helped us all deal with her dying. But she had a real leg up on the task; she was comfortable with death and moving on to heaven. Obviously she was going to miss us, but she didn’t dwell on it. She showed us a true believer.
Fighting the newspaper chain - When the Freedom Newspapers took over the Lima News she fought because they were fighting things that she believed in. The one thing that sticks in my mind is that the editorial writer was against public libraries, arguing that they should be private sector. She disagreed. She protested so effectively that the owner (Mr. Hoyle I believe) came to pay her a visit and discuss her grievances. She thought it illegal based on her research that a holding company could cross subsidize its operations to gain an unfair advantage over the competition in the Lima market.
Packing the school board - She didn’t run for school board herself, but she played a role behind the scenes by recruiting good candidates and supporting them through her network. I believe that her real interest here was getting a better program in place to teach reading, but I presume her interests were wider that just that one issue.
Promoting the nun’s reading program - Sister Monica from Cincinnati. Phonetic reading. The Sister wrote a book and Mom believed in the methodology. She introduced it to the school system and fought for it through the board. She understood it and was a real salesman for it.
Fearing making mistakes in bringing up the eldest - I don’t know how many times I heard it, but she apologized for any mistakes that she may have made with her eldest. She as afraid she was learning mothering at my expense.
Steadfast friends - She has real friends. They stayed with her. Mary McMeeken, what are the names of the others? They helped at my wedding, for example.
Middle age acne - She always thought it a bit ironic that she continued to have acne into middle age. It didn’t seem right, but it was a fact.
Hoya carnosa - She kept it alive and healthy, but was she a good gardener or was it a particularly hearty variety?
A double, not queen, sized bed for how many years? Even after we moved to Kenilworth they kept their double, not queen-sized, bed. Can you imagine so many years sleeping that tight with someone?
Budget before fashion. She aspired to a more fashionable wardrobe. But part of her problem, and only part of it, was that she preferred to save rather than spend on clothes.
Ethan Allen - When we moved to Kenilworth they bought new furniture. It was a genuine luxury for our family to buy such nice quality. It was a big deal, I think even for them.
Date: Sun, 15 Feb 1998 13:27:22 -0500
From: “Stephen R. Jessee”
<sjessee@bellatlantic.net>To: catj
essee@juno.com, djessee@eis1.eis.com.eg,
subach@juno.comSubject: Mom
Yes, indeed t’was a difficult task. But well worth the effort. I’ll not get past missing Mom. Hope this text file includes well; it is a bit long so let me know if you do not get it all:
Intro Late Again For A Birthday
Once again I am late for a birthday. Unfortunately, no card is late or missing But I did not want to shortchange this effort.
Chasing Memories Away
Mom died a few months after I graduated from college. To say her death affected me is a wee bit of an understatement. Someone, I wish I remembered who, told me that though she had made peace with her imminent death, Mom had said that she worried much about the affect on me. At that time, shortly before she died, I did not understand. But as usual, she had cause for concern. I still cannot accept her death.
For the first ten years or so, I could not think or talk about Mom without crying. The hurt was intense. So I avoided such thoughts as well as I could. In the early years, when the thoughts would not leave, I’d go out and run, hoping to run till I dropped just to chase the memories and feelings away. I have developed an unfortunate defense mechanism over time. I forget what I wish not to remember, what may be painful. So I chased memories away.
In the intervening years, it became easier to allow the memories, to talk about Mom. That is, until several weeks ago when this exercise in remembering began. Again, those feelings of loss and loneliness can sometimes overwhelm.
Residual Impressions
Much of my memory of Mom is more impressions of how she was, what she seemed to be, rather than discrete events. Most of the discrete memories are good and happy memories. I remember a mother who was kind and loving, who gave her whole life for her children. She was the communicator for the family, the glue that held us together. She was a faithful sender of cards and letters. She even used to write to Dad’s relatives. She took it upon herself to compensate for many of our weaknesses, I guess. And with her passing, I think we came unglued for a time.
Why my memories of her are so painful, I am not sure. I frankly do not remember being so remarkably close to her. I certainly was not ready to ooze her support. I am still angry that she died so young, just when she was beginning to look forward a life of her own, to travelling with Dad, to being a grandmother rather than a mother. Whatever purpose God had for taking her home so early, I truly hope it has worked. And that I will someday understand, because until then I’ll not likely accept.
Early Days Kitchen on Glenwood
My earliest memories of Mom are in the kitchen on Glenwood. My perspective is that the kitchen was huge, and Mom is either cooking or standing at the kitchen window washing the dishes or talking to Dad. She loved to sing and hum. Though her voice was wonderful, often times the key would tend to slide as she sang. “Good morning merry sunshine, how did you wake so soon? You chased away the pretty stars and shined away the moon” would greet us in the morning I often find myself humming the tunes she used to sing; right up to the parts she could not remember.
Naptime
Naptime was not usually one of my favorite times. This was one of those times I could try her patience. Finally, she would exclaim that I must lay down for an hour, so she could have a quiet time. Naptime did uncover some of her “Victorian” attitudes. She would get so upset whenever she discovered that I was napping sans clothes. I distinctly remember her coming into the room to put away clothes she had folded. I hopped out of bed and ran to put my underwear on. Not a particularly good way to hide my nakedness, so I did receive a good scolding. Well, Mom, despite your best efforts, I grew up a pervert.
Grade school Reading
Mom was always concerned about her children Although I do remember her talking to Ms. HedapuhI (don’t know how to spell that one) about me on several occasions; my most vivid memory was her concern over my reading. By the time I was out of second or third grade, I was way behind in reading. She blamed Ms. H. Due to her efforts, I biked that summer over to Cal Workman’s house for remedial reading class and tested quite positive from that point on. I am sure that that has had more positive impact on my life that perhaps any other single event.
Mizpah Center
I do remember going with Mom to the Mizpah Center in Victory Village. I think this was either grade school or junior high. She was always so concerned for those less fortunate than we were. She volunteered often and was very much involved in the community.
Pinewood Derby
She was a worrier, and didn’t much like the sight of blood. I was sitting back in a (yellow) chaise lounge-folding chair, carving my pinewood derby racer I had my legs up with knees bent and feet on the chair. And I proceeded to carve my leg ... a cut a half inch deep gash about three inches long. I was fascinated, probably because it did not yet hurt. So I walked, trailing blood down the basement stairs to where she was busy in the laundry room. I do think she nearly fainted. But she did recover after a brief hysteria.
Camping
Mom was a trooper. Virtually all our vacations were camping vacations. She did seem to enjoy the camping most the time, but did occasionally prevail on Dad to stay a night in a motel. The specifically most memorable event of our camping years was a time she shed her Victorianism and walked out of the tent naked from the waist up. I do not remember what it was about but I do remember her uncontrolled laughter.
Mr. Jefferson
Mom invited Mr. Jefferson, our most beloved junior high school choir teacher, over to dinner. I did not learn until she lay dying that that it really upset Dad and that they had had a significant argument over it. All I remember of that day was that we did have a very nice dinner in the dining room, and that mom was very happy and a gracious host as always.
High School Beverly White
Our next-door neighbor, Beverly White, barely a teenager, one day stopped breathing and lapsed into a coma. David and I attempted to resuscitate her, but could not. Although that memory itself remains vivid, the coldness of Beverly’s skin, the blueness of her lips and the devastation of her mother, I most remember Mom consoling and worrying over me as the ambulance drove away. Even though I was all right, or at least thought I was, her concern was remarkably comforting (behind my irritation, I thought I was handling it like a man, though I think I was probably visibly pale)
Mothers Day
Perhaps my most painful memory of Mom was on Mothers Day. We had come home from church, and were seated around the dining room table eating the wonderful meal she had prepared. Mother, who had always been there for us, whose whole life revolved around her children, left the table, crying. We had done nothing to honor her on her day. I, for one, was devastated at our thoughtlessness. I still get extremely sad when I remember that day, that we could have hurt her so much.
Mrs. Gingrich
Mom did not particularly like my 11th grade English teacher. Mrs. Gingrich was (I thought) a very good but very demanding teacher. George Sellati and I worked one night until 2 am on an English project. Mom got really angry. That was the last straw (I think George and I were somewhat to blame with our procrastination on the project). She called the principal and I thereafter attended another English class.
Driving to Cincinnati
Near the end of High School, I was in the running for an appointment to the Coast Guard Academy. Mom let me drive us both to Cincinnati in the VW bus, even though I had just recently got my license We had a wonderful time, just talking about this and that, until just south of Dayton, there was a very loud clank followed by a grinding noise Scared us both to death. But she calmed me down enough to pull over to the side of he road Part of the subfloor had come loose from the bottom of the car and was trailing on the ground. She handled is with her normal calm. I just bent it up off the road and we proceeded to Cincinnati and back.
College Alisa
Mom was overjoyed when, in July of 1972, she became a grandmother. She loved to hold Alisa and walk her around. We were home from school (U of Cincinnati, my senior year) for Thanksgiving. I remember how happy Mom was, fawning over her first grandchild, so full of love and caring, and I so happy to be able to share this wonderful woman with my first child. Just a week or so later, back at school, she called. She said she had to call all of us children herself. She had cancer. Please don’t worry. She was OK. Things would work out. I cried a long time that day, the first of many.
Epilogue Memories of Mom are bittersweet. I do so miss her. I just had too much giving back to do when she died. Too much left unsaid. Too little repaid. I know, I don’t have to, she would never expect it. But the sadness will not leave. Mom, I love you, even though I am late for your birthday. Again.
From: catjessee@juno.com To: djessee@eis1.eis.com eg, sjessee@home.com, sUbach@juno.com Date: Thu, 12 Feb 199820:36:43 -0600
Subject: the 71st celebration of Mom’s birth
When this project popped into my head, had no idea how difficult it would be. Actually, I imagined all of you writing it, and me reading it. I keep trying to close my eyes and get a video of Mom. Instead, I get snapshots of family life for all of us when we were young .
It is hard for me to separate memories of Mom from all of the events and non-events in the lives of our family, which I thought of as the perfect all-American family. Two boys, two girls, close in age, with a brilliant dad who was paid well for his daily work, and a loving mom who stayed home with the kids, always there when we needed her. But I also remember that her dreams were to go to college when all of us were through. She also wanted to travel the world, or at least Europe.
I often wonder how different all of our lives would have been had she been able to stay with us. I always feel sad that my son was never able to meet either of his grandmothers, both of whom would have loved him so dearly. Let me go wipe my eyes. I still have a terrible time talking about Mom without shedding a few tears, or a lot. It has been 25 years since we lost her. Maybe I have been repressing her memory for all of these years to protect myself from the sadness of her absence.
Closing my eyes and going back to the house on Glenwood, I see grubby little kids sitting almost in a mud puddle at the end of the driveway, making delectable mud pies and other delights. How did none of us grow up to be bakers? What a gift that was for her to allow us the freedom to get really dirty, and to create.
I see her cleaning up lot from the earliest times, actually more then than later when she made us help her more … I remember having to wait until the wax was sufficiently dry on the wood floors, so we could put on layers of Dad’s old socks and “polish” it until it was slippery enough to slip and slide (our real motivation). We were not welcome in their bedroom, but on floor polishing days, we could legally go into that sacred room and maybe even sneak a little bounce on the high and huge (it seemed) bed. While there I would love to do a little make-up exploring. Stephen ..., I think you might have indulged in a bit of lipstick, as I remember. Do you know the names of those three bottles of cologne she had? One had a wooden lid covered with leopard fur! One’s lid was just wood, called maybe Woodbury or something like that. The third? I think they were Faberge’. She wore only lipstick, and had an old jar of rouge, which I don’t think she ever needed to use, with her naturally red cheeks and nose. She wouldn’t let Susie and me wear red nail polish until we were sixteen. Of course by that time red was way out of style.
Mom tried to teach us all to sew. I remember the frustration I felt when she wanted me to read the instructions that came with the patterns and understand them enough to follow them. Too much work. You guys learned to sew, and made jackets, Stephen made a really cool tam, of which I was jealous.
I made peds out of her old nylons, since she would not let us wear hose (again until that magic age, I suppose). I was really stunted socially and still suffer from that problem today! I was so embarrassed to ask for a bra that I wore the same shirt everyday, it seemed, one I thought no one could see through and not see that I had no bra (not that it was needed in any way except psychologically!). A couple of times I wore a circle of elastic around my chest so that the boys in the seventh grade would not find me out when they tried to snap my bra! But I digress...
She was teaching Susanna and me to embroider. She had to get up for something. When she came back she sat down on the needle that had been stuck, thoughtlessly, into to couch awaiting resumption of the lesson. The way Susanna and I laughed when she yelped and jumped to the ceiling with that needle stuck in her butt, is a shame I will never forget. Don’t laugh at other people’s misfortunes!
When we were sick, she let us play records, stay in bed, and be waited on with ginger ale or 7up and jell. Didn’t we have to go to bed before all the neighborhood kids? It was still light for goodness sake.
The morning routine on Glenwood seemed to consist of one of the parents having to go upstairs to break up a fight between David and Stephen. Who really started those seemingly daily fights? Susanna with her perfect straight hair was always ready before me, since she didn’t have to endure those cold wet hands of Mom trying to perfect my naturally curly hair. And another thing, Sus, she always called you her Sweetie Pie Flower. I was so jealous.
She always fixed us Drostes Cocoa with evaporated milk, after an afternoon of snowman making, or of fox and geese, or of skating on the frozen flooded backyard. She always made sure we had a good carrot for the snowman’s nose.
She always took great care in cleaning those tiny strawberries we picked from the vacant lot and tried to make something special from the ones we had resisted eating.
She was always there to clean our cuts and apply Bactine and Band Aids. And kiss away the tears. She was there for me after Stephen had snatched my thong, and I stepped on a bee as was running home to tell my mommy. She comforted me and cleaned my new sandals when tried to gather a huge piece of wood for a weenie roast and discovered where Granny dumped the bucket from her back porch potty. Did you ever use that thing in the middle of winter? I remember once. Probably learned to hold it after that horrid experience. Between the utter cold on the bare butt, and the ungodly smell, it was a simple thing to loose the urge.
David green, Stephen yellow, Catherine blue, Susanna red? Is that how you remember the color system? Did she feed us grits for breakfast with lots of butter and brown sugar? How many times did she burn the Sunday chicken with that fancy self-timing oven? She loved to make casseroles, but Dad wanted meat and potatoes. Salad was a slab of lettuce. I still can’t eat Bob Evans Sausage.
She loved white gloves and bonnets for Easter we got to hunt eggs at Granny’s house until she moved to town. One year we got sugarless candy in our baskets. (No doubt that was around the time she made us chew wax and spit into a jar, put it in a cardboard cylinder with metal screw lid and send it to the cavity police.) All was forgiven when Easter brought momma bunny and her gang of tiny bunnies.
The year we all neglected to buy her a Mother’s Day gift was the most memorable. We all decided to not mention that it was Mother’s day and maybe she wouldn’t notice that she got no gifts. What a brilliant idea. I never saw her so sad. She didn’t care for the gifts; she only wanted us to show our love.
She was so happy to have married a tall man, because she loved wearing her high heels. Even wore a hole in the old Packard with the right one. Yes, she loved wearing those high heels. Was so flattered when someone commented on how beautiful her legs were, after going up on stage to accept a Girl Scout award.
As we grew older she spent more and more time doing her volunteer work. She was awesome in her giving to others. When she had to make an important point or stick up for the underdog, she could get on her soapbox and flutter those eyelids and really make her point. On the other hand, it was very easy for her to cry. Probably hard for her not to. She could be so emotional.
I could go on for days now. I hope you can forgive the disjointed nature of these rememberings. I know you are all waiting to receive this epistle, and I am excited to go read the messages, which are certainly waiting for me. I think we are all so lucky to have had such wonderful and loving mother.
Thank you all for writing about her and spending time in thought about her. I hope you all enjoyed it as I much as I did, even though it was not an easy assignment. Maybe in this sharing we will enjoy a few short videos, instead of just snapshots.
From: subach@juno.com To: catjessee@juno.com, djessee@eis.com,
sjessee@home.com Date: Wed, 11 Feb 1998 18:28:57 -0500
Subject: Memories of My Mom ....
It’s hard to know where to start, or even how to go about writing my memories of Mom. They’re so scattered, and mostly just momentary glimpses - like that pile of snapshots that sit on my desk waiting to find their resting place someday in a photo album-but, in the meantime, sitting - one here, one there, in no logical order. So, I’ll take those snapshots and glue them to this paper, and if some order comes of it - wonderful. But if no order appears, at least they will be in a place where they won’t be so easily lost.
Glenwood Avenue. Lots happened there in my first ten years. The basement: there she refinished the piano and did laundry and ironed -sometimes as she watched soaps. I remember her teaching me to iron pillowcases and Dad’s shirts, and how disappointed she was when tried to iron her black bra and instead, melted hole in it. (“Honey, that was my favorite black bra!“) I remember when she took us to the children’s home and brought back an orphan to play with us for the day, and we put pieces of wood on top of our skates and spent the day “skateboarding” on our butts across the basement floor? How thrifty she was! I remember her sitting in the living room mending socks, of all things! How comforting was the sound of her singing, though she usually was a touch off-key and only knew two songs I think. Of those, she only knew the first line: “Long ago and far away, I dreamed a dream, one day!”, and “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder, flying high, into the sun!” and then she hummed some notes. I remember doing dishes with her - standing on the step stool in front of the sink. There was something wonderful about the smell when she brought out the summer clothes, which had been boxed up the previous fall.
She’d take the clothes out, one piece at time to our “OOOH! I remember that!” And our jumping up and down with excitement that it was shorts weather again. During those years I have memories of her at church too. Since I was the baby, I suppose I got the prized seat next to her most often, and I got to put my head in her lap and run my little fingers over her smooth thumbnail, and she’d run her fingers through my hair. That was a precious memory of being sick too - when she’d sit on the edge of my bed and feel my forehead for fever and touch my face gently and smooth back my hair from my temples. At those times she’d always bring me Vernor’s ginger ale (oh, I hated the way it fizzed up my nose) and bring in radio so I could listen to “The Lone Ranger” on WJR
Then there was Kenilworth Avenue. I remember house hunting, and her falling in love first with the house on Lakewood-across from the Light’s. She was upset when they took someone else’s offer instead of ours. But then we found Kenilworth. She loved that house too - especially the red wool carpet and the fireplace. I remember her excitement in making that house home - getting curtains and slipcovers for the furniture made, buying the table and chairs for the dining room, and starting to collect pretty glass jars for that beautiful dining room window. I remember going to get a rabbit since there were rabbit cages in the backyard - and coming home with mommy rabbit and her six (?) babies. Soon after we moved in, I remember her sitting on a bed in the boys’ bedroom, looking out the window and seeing Cindy Wright for the first time, playing on a patch of ice on their driveway. She called us in so we could see her leg, which was “just like a Betsy McCall doll’s leg”. I remember how she invited the Whites and Wrights over every New Year’s Eve - and made twisters and mulled cider. I remember her buying me a doll that I really wanted for Christmas in the sixth grade - even, though David thought I was too old. Then there was her bridge club - which she eventually “outgrew” as she became busier and busier with her outside activities: PTA, Cub Scouts (oops, that was Glenwood), Girl Scouts, UPW, tutoring, reading commission, etc. (undoubtedly there was more!). And I remember her sweet friends: Rosemarie, and Sally, and Mary, and Jane. How special they were to her! I remember Alexis, the young black girl she met through Girl Scouts, and how she took it upon herself to not only arrange for Alexis to go on a Girl Scout trip to New York, but also took food and clothes to Alexis’ family because she saw the need. I remember her teaching Catherine and me to sew - and later, the day before each Easter, helping us finish the Easter dresses we were making. I remember mint puffs and toffee and how much fun she had each Christmas making them - except when something went wrong and they didn’t turn out-and then I remember a touch of frustration! Speaking of which: the belt! How could I forget the belt and how “This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.” I never believed that - but as a mom now, I know it’s true. I remember her giving me her change purse and asking me to ride my bike up to the IGA to get a gallon of milk. That purse always had so much change in it. I loved it! I remember one night when she told Dad “I think I’m going to pass out,” and I thought she meant, “Pass away” and I was scared. Then there was the art fair at the museum where they had a “paint along with some artist” booth. Mom, Dad, Catherine and I all painted the same picture. That’s when Dad discovered he had talent for painting and Mom discovered that she didn’t! Remember that picture with the tree that looked like a big green lollipop? That picture brought laughs for long time! And yet she took drawing class at the art center and finally conceded defeat when her teacher toad her that maybe clay would be her medium. I remember when my period started and she proclaimed it a “red letter day” - though I still haven’t figured out what’s so wonderful about it!!! I remember baked chicken and burned broiled pork chops and pot roast and meat loaf. How sweet it was when Uncle Bob would come over on Saturday mornings - and I’d come downstairs to find them sitting talking and drinking coffee at the breakfast nook table. I remember visits to see Aunt Ruthie, and especially the visit after Aunt Ruthie had tried to commit suicide. I remember a day when Stephen came in crying after having broken up with Diana and how Mom followed him into his room to comfort him. I remember how good it felt when I saw her and Dad hugging when he left for work and came home. It was a secure feeling. I remember a few times when there were tears and an argument and worried that they would get divorce. I remember how she always included Grandma (“Bessie” - I always thought it was weird that she called her mom “Bessie”!) when there was track meet, or choir concert, or birthday or other holiday. I remember how she cared for me all summer after the accident - and even emptied my bedpans! I remember her telling me, “I love you. You know that, don’t you?” When she had a meeting in Columbus for the reading commission, she took Catherine and me along, and we had the rare treat of staying in hotel. I remember how neat it was when we went to a Japanese steak house and they cooked the food in front of us - and how strange it was going out to dinner anyhow - and then, just the three of us, and to such an exotic place. I remember Mom, Dad and I flying (my first time) to Colorado Springs to see Stephen at the Air Force Academy - and how she made me a suit and we went shopping for hats because they said that we should wear suits and hats. I remember the day I came home from school, and she told me to sit down at the breakfast nook table and she asked, “How does a ‘Mexican Caravan’ sound?” She then continued to tell me that I had been chosen to go on a Girl Scout “Wider Opportunity” to Mexico and was every bit as excited as I was. Then there was college. I remember unpacking everything into my room and then the tears we shared when we hugged and said goodbye. We both had to bite our lips to hold back the flood of tears. (I’m not managing to hold them back now as I’m remembering and thinking ahead to this fall when I’ll be the mom and Rachel will be the daughter saying goodbye.) Some months later there was mother’s weekend - when she came to visit and I remember going shopping with her and Debbie and Margie and their moms - and she bought me a polyester blue checked pants suit. I remember letters, and how welcome they were, and that occasionally I even wrote back. I remember the evening she called and told me that she had cancer, and how I cried again, and how nobody understood my pain. Moms aren’t supposed to get sick when they’re so young. I remember the hope we felt when we came home that Christmas and what a nice time we had being together. I remember her telling a story about going to the grocery store and a bag boy saying that he had missed her since she hadn’t been in for a while. She told him that she had been in the hospital and he said jokingly, “Terminal, I hope!” She replied that it was indeed. She found the whole episode comical - and said she betted he’d never say that again! I remember David bringing his bride-to-be, Katyna, home and how we shopped for fabric for a wedding dress and then she spent hours behind the sewing machine in spite of how she was feeling. I remember how beautiful Mom looked the day of the wedding in her new orange caftan, and how her friends allied behind her to make the backyard ceremony and reception special. Later that summer I remember her in bed in the dining room, in pain and with a belly bloated from chemotherapy. I remember how the letters she wrote me that summer sometimes had uncompleted words - where she had drifted off the sleep, or into oblivion in the middle of a word. The day she died, and David made the mad dash to Heidelberg to pick me up and bring me home, I remember being the last of us kids to show up. Somehow she became conscious enough to realize that I was there, and said, maybe her last word, “Susie.” Such good memories - but such hard ones too. So many times I’ve thought of her and wished she could be here. I want her to know Dick (other than as an adolescent boy who trying to corrupt her sweet daughter) and my girls. Someday she will, of that I’m sure.
I held back two memories so I could set them apart. They are the most precious and only ones that really matter to me. The first happened my senior year. I went to a concert and heard the truth of the gospel for the first time - that Jesus had died to pay the penalty for my sin, and was waiting for me to accept his gift of forgiveness and eternal life in heaven. That night I accepted that gift and invited Jesus to take up residence within me. I came home after the concert with eyes red from crying, knowing that I was now a child of God, and filled with his Spirit and the joy that that knowledge brings. Mom put her arms around me and held me after I told her about the experience, and she told me that she had also had such life-changing experience earlier in her life. Knowing that Mom was saved didn’t mean that much to me at that time - but when I knew that cancer was going to cut her life so short, it meant the world to me. The second memory is of a talk we had with one another as she lay in her dining room bed. She told me that she was ready to die and that she wasn’t afraid. She held me and we cried together and said, “I know.” She had such peace – and the reason she did was that she knew without a doubt that Jesus was waiting to welcome her into heaven. Oh, that blessed peace! How thankful I am that it’s mine too. In my mind, when I look back over Mom’s life and my impressions of her - the first thought that comes to mind is that she was an authentic Christian. She loved with Christ’s love and her compassion for those who were in need was great. She was a champion of the oppressed and the hurting, willing to go the extra mile for them, and she was truly a woman of integrity, certainly a rarity in this day. How thankful I am to have had such special mom! How thankful I am to have known such a great person!