Tag Archives: memories

Gueneviere: Gratitude in Fur

Gueneviere: Gratitude in Fur

Gueneviere can’t resist the opportunity to lay her head down…her head on the cushion from one of my mom’s pets’ beds, her bottom resting on my precious friend Mary’s hand embroidered cushion. And then Gwen herself — she was Mama’s baby. I am more grateful than I can express that I brought her home with me after Mom died. Knowing Mom loved her and now I love her makes me happy and grateful and warm.

Home for Christmas

Being home for Christmas is a bittersweet mixed bag. On the one hand, it’s important to be with my dad. On the other, I think I really get on his nerves sometimes, and in spite of how similar we are in personality, we don’t have all that much in common. And then there are all the other memories, regrets, and unfinished business that being home dredges up, between me and my dad and my stepmom, too, but most having to do with my mom and her side of the family.

Having lost my mom three years ago just a few weeks prior to Christmas, I find the season to be very difficult anyway. Last year I stayed home in Belgium, and for Christmas Day, it was pretty lonely, but friends came from Sweden for New Years, and we had a lovely time in Bruges, Brussels, and Liege. Dad was disappointed that I didn’t come home though, and I knew I needed to try to go home this year. So I went. I ended up being terribly melancholy, and very nearly depressed. Heck, if I’m gonna be melancholy, I’d rather be thus with my dog and cats nearby.

Driving through Mom’s hometown on the way to Dad’s family’s old home place, he had Ray Price in the CD player, and I swear, could he have picked any music that would have reminded me more of her? She loved his music, and For the Good Times would’ve had me nearly in tears anyway, so driving by places so filled with memories of her with that music in the background was almost more than I could stand. So I looked out the window and pretended to be daydreaming and bit back the tears.

Dad has been remarried for over forty years. There is little connection between him and my mom now; there’s just me. I know I must remind him of her, and that’s not exactly easy for him, I suppose. He has his own regrets and painful memories. When his own mother lay dying, he tearfully apologized to me for all the bad blood between him and Mom; it was very difficult for him but to his credit, he did it. The only other time I ever saw, well, heard him cry was when I told him via telephone that she’d died; he simply burst into tears, incredulous, and cried, “What?!?” I know he loves me, but I don’t think he loves having me around all that much. He wants me home, but when I’m actually there, it’s not really pleasant for him. But not being there, when he hasn’t got all that many Christmases left, steals something from both of us that will leave me with even more regrets. I’ll never get over not being with Mom on her last Thanksgiving; I don’t want to miss Dad’s last Christmas. But is that how you’re supposed to live? Making decisions based on what will leave you with less guilt?

There is so much baggage in my past, probably as there is in just about everyone’s. I don’t know quite how to carry it. I feel as if I’m shifting it from one hand to the other all the time, as one of my favorite authors once said. It’s filled with things said and unsaid running continuously through my head, an endless reel of regrets and what-ifs.

 

Hold onto the Old; Welcome the New

2011 was a year of change and adventure, and a year of sadness. I moved yet again, back home to New Hanover County, without doubt the most beautiful area in the world: sun, tall pines and live oaks, dunes, the ocean, sunrises that stun the senses and sunsets over the water on the EAST coast. (Yes, it’s true[i].) I visited Iceland, land of severe and startling beauty. I met interesting people and developed lasting friendships. I accepted a position with DODEA and am preparing to move to Europe, another homecoming of sorts. And I have wanted to share it all with my mom, who is really and truly Home, but to whom I wasn’t ready to say goodbye when she went to be with Jesus just over a year ago.
 In the blog entry from June 19, 2011 I said, “Life is precious, life is sweet. And sometimes it is bittersweet.” I would amend that now to say “often” instead of “sometimes.” This recent move to Wilmington has been filled with bittersweet reminders of the years we spent together here when I was a child —
The USS North Carolina:  I recently visited the noble vessel with friends, something that I had done with Mom when I was about eight; she taught me to admire the sailors who served on her, to the point that I even served in the US Naval Reserve myself. The smells on the ship are overwhelming memory inducers, and this recent trip took me back to that first visit.
Carolina Beach:   The tiki bar is one of my favorite places. It sits on what is left of Center Pier, across from the land that once held the motel that Mom owned. Eons ago, when I was about seven, she walked me all the way out on Center Pier during a strong gale. She was terrified of hurricanes but loathed the thought that I would be, so we walked in the furious wind, my hand held firmly in hers, and she talked with me as if everything were perfectly normal. Only later would I learn that she was absolutely beside herself with fear, but so sternly determined that I not be afraid of wind storms that she swallowed her terror, and I, because of her sacrifice, have literally slept through category 3 hurricanes.
Wrightsville Beach: Standing on the sand, watching the waves and the fishermen, I remember Mom casting the line from the shore. At 5’4″ and 110 pounds, she could cast as well as most men. She taught herself to throw a cast net and gig for flounder, too, which she filleted and cooked like nobody else.
The Intracoastal Waterway: Every time I pass over an ICW bridge, I can almost taste the oysters we gathered and ate, standing on the sand. I still feel weight of the knife I held in my hand and how it scraped against the oyster bed as I mimicked her motions, learning to pull the individual shells away from the bed and then open. If I lick my lips, I taste the salt.
These and countless other landmarks, smells, and tastes cause memories to flash in my mind of things we did together here over the course of my life. She shared her love for this beautiful and varied place with me. It will always be home to me, as it was to her.
Now the move to Europe floods me with thoughts of her; she and I made a similar move many years ago, to Germany, and I so want to hear her thoughts. Just a few nights ago, as I was driving to a New Year’s celebration, I thought of calling her to ask her advice. After over a year, I still reach out for her frequently. The past thirteen months have been filled with memories of Mom, thoughts of what I want to say to her or ask her about, of things I wish I’d done differently, of questions about what eternity is really like.
2011 was a tough year. I have worked really hard at my job, and I’ve moved once and begun a second move. I’ve embraced my singleness, letting go of most of the vague dreams I once had of some fictional Prince Charming, realizing I am pretty content in my life with my pets and my friends. I’ve done all of it while mourning the loss of my mom. I have confronted everything with enthusiasm, in Mom’s example. So, in spite of the pain, I’ve begun to be relatively happy again.
There is a saying, “out with the old, in with the new.” I prefer “hold onto the old, welcome the new.” The old must never be tossed out; it makes us who we are. We must hold onto it, cherish it, nurture it, so that we are open and ready to enfold the new into us, and assimilate it all into a new whole.  As I face 2012, I resolve to hold onto the memories of my mom and all she meant to me, as well as all the rest of the good and bad of my past, and welcome the new adventure that is in front of me. There will be difficult days ahead, but life is still precious, sweet, and bittersweet. I am grateful for all I’ve been given. God is still good, and I am still His.


[i] Because NC’s coastal geography juts in, then out, then back, some of its coasts are western-facing. Little known and lovely fact.