Tag: memories

Where is Mother?

Grammy Writes36 Comments

My mother seems to turn up in the strangest places! I usually find her roaming in the garden since it always was her favorite place to be. But sometimes, there she is – hiding in the pages of a book, in the melody of a song, or the flutter of every bird that nests in my tree. I often see her face when I look in the mirror, or in the clouds as they roll by on the breath of the wind. Now and then I find her standing in my kitchen when the aroma of something I’ve made reminds me of home. Instinctively, my arms open to embrace her only to realize she isn’t really there… so I brush off the illusion and embrace the day instead… because that’s what she would want me to do.

It’s Only Words #2 – for Mother’s Day

I Still See You When I Dream

Grammy Writes25 Comments

034 (2)

Last night
you joined me in my dream.
We took a walk
like we always used to do
to that place
you always loved
down by the river.
I threw a stick
into the shallows and you ran
as if a ghost dog
I couldn’t see
might get there first.
You brought it back to me
and dropped it at my feet,
looking up with the happiest face
I’d ever seen
free of pain… of weariness… and burden.
At the end of my dream
you trotted off to your heavenly home,
wagging your tail
just so I’d know
you didn’t mind.
I woke up to another day without you – and I smiled!

This one’s for you, Heidi Girl, to commemorate what would have been your 17th birthday. It is a follow-up to my post A Poem for Heidi

Mother’s Garden

Grammy Writes20 Comments

garden

Last night steady rain fell here in the garden,

flooded now with memories of my mother.

The morning sky

still hangs low with heavy clouds

but leaks pale yellow light here and there.

“Sunshine is good for the Cannas,”

I hear her say.

I wonder if she ever knew how little I cared;

how unimpressed I was at the time

with her gardening wisdom?

Nurturing her garden was my mother’s gratification

… a diversion from the unfair hand

she was dealt.

I pull weeds from a patch of Begonias

and remember her happy.

I watch ants parade through the Peonies

and remember her healthy.

I prune the Roses, deadhead the Daisies,

and tie the Clematis a little bit higher for dramatic effect;

but my efforts don’t match the beauty

of Mother’s garden.

Sunlight fades; the air is still.

I realize I’ve tended the garden all day long.

I imitate the Lilies

which have folded themselves in prayer.

“God, grant me another day,” I ask

“filled with memories of Mother’s garden.”

“I Was More Than That,” she said . . .

Grammy Writes39 Comments

war bride

I have the unique privilege of meeting hospice patients for the purpose of writing their life story, so I’ve heard some pretty amazing tales!  I’ve learned about lives well lived, about accomplishments and regrets, and about the way certain events can shape a person’s life forever. It’s been awhile since I last shared a hospice story, so here’s one about a woman who grew up in London during the bombing blitz of WWII. At 18, she became a war bride, but when I met her at the age of 90, she was quick to point out that’s not all she was!

She was born in London in 1928. Her father was a letterpress operator for a London newspaper, the Daily Herald, and her mother was a teacher at a school for girls. She was 12 years old when German warplanes began bombing the city every night for 57 consecutive nights in attacks that continued until May 1941. During the bombings her family took shelter in the basement of a nearby warehouse. She recalls how very loud it was, even underground, and how they tried to drown out the noise by singing and dancing to Glen Miller while bombs were being dropped above them. She remembers the strange color of the sky and the smell of smoke as they walked home each morning through the war-torn city. When the Blitz ended, much of London was destroyed or damaged and 375,000 citizens were left homeless.

She had two sisters and one brother. They, along with her parents, survived the bombings but their home did not. She was 15 before they found a permanent home, having moved from place to place for several years. The best part about having their own home again was being able to take a bath, but she remembers the day her mother drew a 5-inch line around the inside of the bath tub because that’s all the water they were allowed to use due to government restrictions. There were also rations on food, clothing and shoes. She, her sisters and her mother all shared the only five dresses they owned.

When she was 17, dancing was still a favorite pastime just as it had been in that warehouse basement, so one night her sisters snuck her into a dance hall where American GI’s often spent their free time and money. She met her future husband there, dancing the Jitterbug and drinking “bitters”. She soon found out that marrying her young soldier was not going to be easy. American servicemen were met with numerous obstacles if they wanted to marry while overseas. After finally being granted permission from his Commanding Officer (and her parents), they were married in 1946. They enjoyed a two-week honeymoon before he was sent to Paris. Once he knew when he could return to the States, he applied for her to be sent to America as a War Bride. She was summoned to the American Embassy in London for an interview, then put on a waiting list with thousands of other English brides.

Eleven months later, it was finally time to say goodbye to her family and her home. Until then, life in London was all she had ever known. It took over two weeks to sail from Southampton to New York. She remembers being impressed by the skyscrapers, never having seen such tall buildings before.  She also remembers when she got off the ship there was no one to greet her. She was to have been met by her husband’s parents, but her ship, The S.S. Argentina, was several days late. She lived in Boston with her new in-laws, who were strangers to her, for three months while she waited for her husband to come home.

The American GI and his War Bride were married for 32 years and had three sons. He became a car salesman after his discharge from the Army and she was a cook in an elementary school for 14 years. They moved to the Mid-West and opened their own restaurant in 1968. Ten years later, he passed away. She sold the restaurant and opened a pastry shop in a small suburb where her pies and cakes were in high demand. The boys were busy and popular. Her two oldest sons graduated from college and the youngest one joined the Army, like his father.

She was diagnosed with kidney disease in 2015 and was placed on hospice services in 2017. I met her because her family wanted me to document her life story in a journal. They provided me with decades of photos, and I collected memories from her to include in the book. The first time she and I talked, I told her I heard she was a War Bride. “Well, I was more than that!” she said, so I decided not to talk about it further unless she brought it up. I let her tell me she was a wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. She was an avid reader, a school board member, a devout Christian, and a bird watcher. She loved to travel, to cook and to watch old movies. She and her husband danced together for nearly 30 years. It didn’t take long, however, before she was telling me about the air-raids in London and what it was like to leave home all by herself. Was she brought to America as a War Bride? Yes, she was! But she was SO much more than that!

Here are more of my hospice stories, if you care to read them:

“I Don’t Know You,” she said . . .

“It’s Who I Was,” he said . . .

Write a Positive Page

When Illness Comes (Poem)

Photo credit: Bing search

Another Visit to Hannah’s Kitchen

Grammy Writes6 Comments

I love how poetry is subject to interpretation. All writing is, to a certain degree, but poetry often means different things to different people and can stretch far beyond what the writer imagined. Take last year’s poem Thanksgiving in Hannah’s Kitchen, for instance. It met with mixed reviews: some liked it, some did not. Some saw it as funny and some found it sensual. Here’s how I see Hannah. She is the oldest, probably lonely, and least hospitable member of her family. She has prepared more Thanksgiving dinners than she cares to remember. She has the timing of every dish down to a science and prefers to do it herself over the drama and chaos that comes with “help”. Time alone finds her reminiscing, but there comes a point during her familiar routine when she grows impatient with the turkey… and maybe with herself. Here again is Thanksgiving in Hannah’s Kitchen:

hannahkitchen

Aromas, spicy and strong,

emit themselves from the depths of Hannah’s kitchen

where she busies herself with tasks no one will notice:

potatoes peeled, cranberries washed

and flour swept from the floor after making pies.

Many in her family have offered to help

but Hannah finds them useless

like the cold, dead turkey she pats dry.

She fills the bird with stuffing and rubs him with oil,

massaging the skin as if it were a former lover.

She reflects on by-gone days and early escapades

into the promises and promiscuity of youth.

She glances around the kitchen,

embarrassed by the direction her mind has gone;

just one more reason she is glad to be alone.

She tends to the turkey once again,

preening him like a groom before his wedding.

It startles her when his legs become untucked,

as if wanting to stand up, one last time, in the shallow pan.

Meticulously she binds them—tighter this time

then shoves the whole damn turkey into the oven.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate it!