She was a quiet and mild woman, until you made her angry. Then, she morphed into Hurricane Louise. Even when she was her most angry, she kept a cool exterior with nothing more than a scowl that meant Hell was about to be unleashed. She was fire and ice.
Growing up, she taught me about the joy of still pastimes and peaceful play. She would take me outside, into the woods near our cabin or where she grew up in Tennessee, and tell me to listen to what nature had to say. Listen for the sounds of whippoorwills and various other birds, sounds of streams, sounds of the summer wind rustling the leaves of the old oak tree, or the echoes of whatever unseen wildlife scampering in the distance. She would not ever appear to be the outdoorsy type – with her curled hair, lipstick, tailored wardrobe, and high heels. Underneath her skin lived a woman who knew the trails of South Pittsburg, the mountains of Alderson, and all things Earthly. She’d lead me through these forests, holding my hand, and would stop to show me everything. She’d collect a handful of her favorite wild blackberries to share. She’d reach down and pluck a sprig of spearmint and tell me of how she brushed her teeth when she was a young, poor girl during the Great Depression.
She made her way through poverty to grow up and become a college graduate, a member of the University of Dayton Aerospace Mechanics Research Department, a business owner, a mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother. Even though her own mother passed on when she was only 6, she still managed to overcome so many of life’s obstacles without much of a complaint. I was, and still am, in complete awe of her.
She spoiled me from the day I was born. Elaborate playrooms for all of my neighborhood friends, fresh fruit platters with her famous dip, vacations in our camper, swimming, museums, plenty of backyard recreation, and anything we ever wanted. There was still plenty of emphasis on sharing, caring for others, respecting our fellow humankind, and the importance of excelling in education. She worked hard and was a wonderful role model. She was a talented needle artist – crochet, cross stitch, embroidery, and sewing. She made me dolls, doll clothes, doll bedding, my own dresses, and costumes. I’m not entirely sure, but I think she had a time turner. She collected antiques and books and prepared herself a substantial library in our basement, divided in sections, and complete with a card catalog.
We’d spent the better part of 1998 perfecting our potato soup recipe. She and my dad owned a convenience store together and after he was diagnosed with cancer that year, I joined the family business to help ease the stress. We worked side by side by side and I loved and hated every minute. By the time I was 23, she’d become my best friend. She loved spending time with The Oldest. She taught him to love asparagus and made him full plates of bacon to snack on and The Legend of Zelda (because she was an avid gamer).
The end came slowly. She fell apart a little at a time. It wasn’t noticeable to those of us that spent every day with her. I see pictures of her now from then and wonder how I didn’t see it. It was so subtle. A doctor visit here and there and then news that didn’t carry the weight that it should have. Congestive Heart Failure, a blocked valve, and an aneurysm. This stubborn old woman’s clock was wearing down and for as slowly as it was creeping it was tremendously fast.
There is no real way to prepare yourself for that call, for that face to face meeting with a cold police officer, for hearing those words, for seeing that sight, for holding your father up, and for breaking that news to someone else. Severing a bond that strong is unimaginable and I hope that it’s the worst pain that I ever experience. She brought the life, this mother of mine, into the house and into my world, with her final heartbeat all was vacuumed out. With an emptiness that can only be understood by those who have touched it – I robotically finished the day. I held her hand and kissed her soft cheek one final time and closed the door to the room that held her last breath and felt a numbness that I cannot describe. There was silence inside of her and I felt it inside of me. And every August 4 from then to now and beyond – I remember that ache of nothingness.
When times get hard, I speak to her as though she is still sitting on that couch or on the other end of the telephone receiver. I sometimes unload my burdens to her and imagine her gentle, wise responses. Her voice is still rich in my head and my mind can piece together words from old conversations to form the guidance that I need. Poetic stitching replaces motherly advice. A handmade doll reflecting an uncanny likeness to her face that sits on my dresser fills in for that physical void even though it doesn’t hug back. I am left to travel through life with ghosts and on most days that’s enough. But today, I long for arms and voices and being five with my hand small in hers listening to the crisp sounds of crunching foliage underneath our feet and innocently looking up to her smiling face, completely oblivious of this pain.
