RIP Mummy Mother Mom

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Mummy died yesterday on Easter afternoon. Perhaps it’s somewhat symbolic given the nature of the holy day.

Most might say she “passed away,” but I have no issue with directness.

“Died” is direct. Flowers die. Trees die. They wither as their cells cease to receive nourishment from the earth and rain.

“Passed away” has religious origins as a way of expressing that the deceased has gone to the other side, and it often helps people soften the blow, or express death in words they feel are more respectful.

In my mother’s case, given how congested her hospice room was with dead people coming and going during her final month, I suspect she’s with those souls now—or on to her next life.

After the nursing home called one of my brothers with the news, he went to her side. As her body was cooling, as preparations were being made, he held her hand and wished her well on her next adventure.

Just a couple weeks ago, as Mom lay on her hospice bed, she expressed some misgivings about the embalming and burial ahead of her.

Mom: I don’t want to be in a box. I want to be in a jar.

My brother: And where will we put that jar?

Mom: On the bureau.

That’s so emblematic of my mother. Basic. Often humorous in her simplicity. It reminds me of a visit we had to a butterfly conservatory in Costa Rica.

My mother and I were sitting on a bench in the shade outside the conservatory when a female naturalist from our group joined us on the bench.

Naturalist to my mother: Did you enjoy the butterflies? What kinds did you see?

Mom: Oh yes, I did. There were lots of different kinds… red ones, blue ones, yellow ones.

The same with flowers. My mother never learned the names of the annual  flowers she planted every Spring. She went to the nursery and bought her favorites: pink ones and purple ones.

RIP Mummy, Mother, Mom. I’m glad I was able to spend time at your bedside with my siblings just a short while ago.

 *  *  *

In tribute: “Wolves” by Down Like Silver. One of my very favorite songs. It reflects my own feelings about death. I find it comforting.

Heaven

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Mummy and Me, 3/30/2021

You might recall that my 92-year-old mother was diagnosed with Covid-19 in April 2020. She was quarantined on the Covid floor at her nursing home in Massachusetts for 30 days. She seemed to have a mild case and recovered completely.

That’s the Mummy we all know: the baby girl born prematurely in the third-floor walk-up at barely two and a half pounds and incubated in the kitchen oven. A survivor.

On February 17, 2021, my mother began having hallucinations—or whatever one calls visitors from the other side. She spoke with her mother and others long dead.

She refused to eat. We were told she had two days remaining at best, but she continues to prove everyone wrong. I was told that if I tried to get there from here, I probably wouldn’t make it in time.

But she continued to rally. One day she would sleep all day; the next, she’d be completely lucid. Up, down, up, down. No one knew what to think—least of all, the hospice nurses.

In mid-March, she was still hanging on. There were more sleepy days, she was very weak, but she was still waking up with clarity and bits of conversation. When my brothers visited, she would ask who was with them. More dead people.

I decided to book a last minute flight to Boston on March 19—without telling my siblings I was on my way—and betting against the odds that my mother would hang on at least until I got there. I stayed for a week. Mom didn’t recognize me until the third day. She said a weak “Hi.”

She still hasn’t had solid food. She sucks water from a sponge and sips small amounts of protein shakes.

Good grief—She’s playing tic-tac-toe with my sister today!

The day before yesterday one of my brothers was there and Mom was frantically waving and reaching out to dozens of dead people passing through her room. She said there was someone bringing fried chicken and biscuits. Curiouser and curiouser! She wanted to know: would she be having lunch today?

My siblings will continue with their time on watch. They’ll take turns, vigilant at her bedside, trying to keep her comfortable.

But all I want to know is: Does this mean there’s fried chicken and biscuits in heaven?

This Is Where It Began

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This is The Farm. One-hundred acres of wild woods and domesticated fields. A couple dozen milk cows, two draft horses, two pigs, twelve+ rabbits, twelve-odd laying hens, twenty-four ducks, one billy goat, one barn cat named Jasper, and one mongrel dog named Skippy. And four barefoot kids.

“I have always loved wild places. I grew up on a hundred-acre farm where my siblings and I were put out to pasture at an early age. We crawled on our bellies in our stick forts, and grazed on wild strawberries till the cows came home.”

It’s all here—from the Bee Hives and the Vegetable Garden to the Big Barn, Silo, and Horse Barn, the Orchard, Pig Pen, Garage, Farm House, Tractor Barn, Tool Shed (my favorite), Corn Crib, Outhouse, Duck Coop, Chicken Coop, Pond, Woodpile, Uncle Joe’s Workshop, Hay Fields, Cow Pastures, Horse’s Hill, original owners’ Family Cemetery, The Dump, The Swamp, Woodlot, and The Back Forty.

“Later we scanned the skies above and chanted “Star light, star bright…” Fireflies blinked in response— but mosquitos showed us who’s boss.”

The First Memoir I Ever Read…

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The first memoir I ever read was Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes. It caught my ear as I was waiting in the car while my husband popped into an auto parts store. We were parked at the intersection of Route 412 and Butterfield Coach Road in Springdale, Arkansas and the auto parts surely had something to do with flat tires. I changed many a flat on our chert-laden Washboard Hill.

But given my love of wild places, it was a no-brainer that we were raising our children in a cottage located down four miles of dirt road and across two creeks (and no bridges) on a lake in Arkansas.

It was ten miles by road to the closest school bus stop. Or a mile by canoe to the closest bus stop as the crow flies. This option was down in Hogscald Hollow, as soon as they were old enough to paddle alone—at ten and twelve.

But back to Angela’s Ashes. It was a beautiful sunny day and on that day, October 6, 1996, NPR was interviewing Frank McCourt—another late-blooming memoir writer. I think what impressed me the most was the way he laughed and chuckled as he spoke about some of the most dreadful events of his childhood.

He couldn’t do anything about it. He was a kid in Ireland, living in The Lanes.

If ever there was a personification of perseverance, I suppose the late Mr. McCourt must surely be on the list. This was a man with grit and joy.

To hear it from the man himself and his lovely accent, listen to the 1996 NPR interview with Frank McCourt below.  He wrote Angela’s Ashes at 66.

R.I.P. Frank McCourt.

https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1045022

Barkeep! Another Round of Hugs, please!

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After another long COVID week, I am longing for some refreshment. Liquid? Virtual? Physical? Any kind of refreshment. I think I’d like a Lemon Drop Martini. It’s been many years since I’ve ordered one. If the barkeeper has been careful passing it to the waitperson and the waitperson has managed to get to my table without a jostling, I will have a lovely sweet-tart beverage without the lemon sugar syrup sliding down the stem of the glass. Maybe too sweet, but refreshing nonetheless with a hint of summer on this grey day. Better yet, a Lemon Drop Martini made with Limoncello—for flashbacks to Italy and Italian places. I had my first limoncello on the island of Capri after taking the funicular to the top of the hill and walking along a stone path that clung to a hillside shaded by a bougainvillea-covered pergola. Fuchsia bougainvillea demands that you remember it. Then there was Prosecco and crisp calamari near the square. The memories of beverages sipped—or thrown back— in foreign places keep alive the faint promise that we shall leave home once again. In the meantime, there are virtual visits where we see ourselves mask-less and unadorned. This new normal is not welcomed, but it is necessary. What I miss most are hugs. One day when we are free, I’ll cross the sunny threshold of a cafe. “Barkeep! Hugs all around!” I’ll say. And then I’ll throw my arms around you and I won’t let go.

Well, here we are…

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…having crossed into the second month of 2021.

What do you think? Are we better off? Do we see positivity on the horizon? Are we feeling better? Healthier? Mentally more stable? Are you at work on any resolutions?

I’m just glad that I’m not toggling between CNN Live and MSNBC 24/7. Although I did appreciate and enjoy the content between 9 PM and midnight—that I had little previous exposure to.

I got my first COVID-19 vaccine innoculation this week. Whew.

I’ve been listening to more music. Mostly 60s and 70s material. Thinking about those times, and missing live music. Very much. No sense looking for 2021 Bands On Tour.

However, I’ve been taste-testing podcasts. Some that I had forgotten about.

Flowers are blooming here in the rain. Time to think about the garden. I decided to dig a 12″ deep trench, 2′ wide, 8′ long. Maybe tomorrow. I want to drop my compost bins into the ditch so the worms can get in through the slots.

Dieting. Semi-successfully. I’ve taken off my “Covid Nine” but am having a difficult time getting past it. Weighing my food and abstaining from alcohol. Boo.

Can’t resist flipping through details of wild places to visit in 2022.

Oh yeah… Definitely writing more and taking Restorative Yoga classes.

Hiking in the woods, alone with my thoughts. Lost. Not Lost. Beating back depression with a trekking pole.

Baby steps. Thumbs up! 🙂

A Message from my Past

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This morning, I opened a journal that I began several years ago, and revisited the opening entry.

“Intro to Survival. The night I realized that the writing was going to be my redeemer, I dove in head first. I’ve never jumped head first into anything. I always feel like I have to explain why I go down the ladder off the boat, or push myself off the stern into the sparkling depths that others embrace with such enthusiasm.

This time I didn’t hesitate. I started typing at 10 PM. Tap tap tapping. The words flowing like the creek after a rare drenching rain. I couldn’t slow them down and I couldn’t stop them from spilling out.

Suddenly there were no more tears. Just staccato sentences. No more exclamations points. Just declarative honesty. I shut off the light and lay my head on my pillow. But it kept coming. I turned on the light and wrote some more.

At 2 AM, I closed my eyes to the moon and the stars, to the soft breeze on my cheek.

I didn’t have a nightmare that night. I didn’t even dream at all.

I got up the next day and began my life anew.”

Linda Summersea, September 8, 2012

I vividly remember that night, although I had no way of knowing where it would take me. On New Year’s Eve (12/31/2020) at 11:53 PM, I completed the final reading of the seventh and, hopefully, final draft of my childhood memoir, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

I closed my laptop with a feeling of decisiveness. Of completion. And happiness at being pleased with where the journey took me.

Happy New Year! I’m looking forward to seeing what 2021 brings for all of us.

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Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

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I haven’t posted in a while because here on the home front, beyond politics and Covid-19, I’ve been riding the roller coaster of Life. I’ve been hanging tight… It wouldn’t be Life if we didn’t have a few lessons to learn, right?

I wish all of you a wonderful holiday season and a happy new year 2021! And without further ado, here’s a happy memory from Christmas week, 1966.

“I was sixteen. I was driving myself to Denholm’s Department Store in a city twenty miles away on a school night. I must have told Mum and Dad what I was up to because I had to ask permission to borrow the car.

As proof of my emotional immaturity—and my hesitation to leave childhood behind—I was on my way to fulfill a childhood fantasy. I had always wanted to have my picture taken with Santa Claus.

On the second floor of the store, I saw Santa sitting on a golden throne in the Toy Department. His throne, hung with fragrant evergreen swags and a string of twinkling white lights, was the centerpiece of a green-carpeted platform placed three shallow steps above the rest of us. I joined the line of small children and their mothers, and they paid no attention to me. Well, maybe they did.

I was wearing an A-line, mint green, silk shantung dress. It was the prettiest dress I have ever owned in my life—bar none. I even felt pretty in that dress.

I was a little nervous and somewhat intimidated. I had my coat unbuttoned, ready to shed it quickly as I got closer to Santa.

When it was my turn, I handed my coat to an elf. I tiptoed up the steps to Santa and sat on the edge of his lap, just barely touching his red velvet thigh. I told him I didn’t want anything for Christmas except the photo, and I directed one of my rare smiles towards the elf with the camera. Santa didn’t say too much. Maybe he ho-ho-hoed. After the camera flash, I stepped down from the Santa throne and a few minutes later, my Polaroid was ready and Santa’s elf handed it to me in a Merry Christmas photo card.

I liked it. I did. There I was—carefully seated with Santa in my pretty green dress. My long brown hair looked just right. It was perfect. Even in my self-conscious state, I couldn’t find anything wrong with it. I stared at the photo as I rode down the escalator and floated out the door to where it was snowing lightly, just a scattering of fluffy flakes under the street lights to dust this fairy tale evening with Christmas magic.

I drove home on auto-pilot, parked the car in the driveway and before anyone had time to question me, I hung my coat in the hall closet and made my way upstairs to bed. I never shared that experience with anyone before now. Maybe I’ve always been a little embarrassed at being so lonely and emotionally withdrawn, but having my photograph taken with Santa Claus at age sixteen had given me Joy. I’m glad that I was brave enough to realize that it’s never too late to make something right.”

Summersea, Linda. The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

Swimming in the Dead Sea in Summer

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Yesterday was my 70th birthday. Rather a big one, I think, and worthy of a big celebration. I don’t mean a big party or big money spent. I prefer to celebrate a significant transition with some kind of adventure, big or small or in-between.

I had hoped, if all went well, to be swimming in the Dead Sea this month as part of an expedition to Jordan to visit the ruins at Petra. It would be exhilarating to hike for a couple days in and around the ruins, then camp under the stars in the desert near Wadi Rum.

The same company that handled my return to Morocco to walk with Berber Nomads in 2017 and last summer’s 22-day Uncharted Expedition to Kazakhstan, Siberia, and Mongolia offers a “Women’s Expedition” to Jordan.

At first I ignored it because I thought in terms of the specialized women’s activities that one sees here and there. I surely didn’t want a frou-frou trip with shopping, make-up demos, and wine tasting. Definitely NOT my thing!

It turns out that their Woman’s Expedition involves hiking around Petra and Wadi Rum for a couple of days, camping under the stars (Love!) and, as they say in their materials “the best opportunity possible for developing a deeper understanding of Middle Eastern women – with full respect for their traditional cultural values.”

That’s what I want. Meeting Jordanian women in their homes for Middle Eastern cooking lessons, tea, the kohl experience, talking and socializing.

Of course, COVID put an end to all that. I’ve spent my days hiking familiar trails, gardening, harvesting vegetables, berry-picking, baking, installing 300+ feet of drip irrigation, bird watching, and—boring—repairing my dishwasher.

As the individual days of COVID blurred together, I decided to, at least, try one new-to-me adventure: stand-up paddleboarding.

This is what I emailed to my sons:

“It was great fun and a super workout. 100% positive experience. I loved it. I fell off three times. Lost my center of gravity, and the board shot forward out from under me. Then, Bang! Hit the water feet first and WHOOSH, rocket down Deep Deep Deep, followed by Glub Glub Glub, returning to the surface. LOL 
Getting back on the board isn’t too difficult, but I wouldn’t want to be 50 lb heavier.
Quartermaster Air temp was 61 F and water temp 65 F  (10 degrees warmer than Puget Sound). I wore my long-sleeve performance shirt under my sunblock shirt, with quick-dry river pants. Was perfectly comfortable even when wet. Actually quite refreshing.
Basic skills: Knees slightly bent.  Don’t grab the board with your toes or you’ll get cramps. Most important: Keep your core tight to control board wobble.
I knew I’d certainly be falling in. Brought a change of clothes.”

I perhaps should have been writing about my COVID experience these months. That’s what “everyone” says we should be doing—for the sake of documenting these days. But I haven’t.

I’m just trying to keep my head above water. I’ll continue to listen to the trees rustle in the breeze with the occasional scream of a gull in the distance.

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A Covid-19 Survival Story

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My mother tested positive for Covid-19 on April 11, 2020.

A week later, she experienced difficulty breathing, coughing, but no fever. After days of being very ill, she was moved to the Positive-Covid-19 floor of her nursing home in Massachusetts.

She was on oxygen continuously for several days, then periodically as needed.

Then– she got better!

I called Mum today, May 23: SIX weeks after that diagnosis and also her 92nd birthday!

She sounded perfectly normal. Mind blowing!

She, of course, is the same baby girl who was born in 1928 at home in a third-floor, walk-up apartment, 2 months early, weighing 2 pounds (or was it 3 pounds?), and swaddled in a shoebox.

The doctor said, “Keep her in the oven with the door open.”

It was a gas oven.

There’s no other explanation. Simply put, my mother is a survivor.

P.S. Due to her dementia, she knows nothing about COVID-19. All she knows is that she can’t play Bingo because “we have to stay 6 feet apart”.