Oh Dave! Now

As I emerge from my holiday bubble and start the year twenty-ten (2010), I realize I struggled mightily this year with maintaining the Christmas Spirit (CS). Over a few weeks it came and went and came again with the swiftness of the melody in a rap song. This was apparent during the matinee of the final performance of the San Francisco Symphony Chorus holiday concert that Eric and I attended at wonderful Davies Hall. The tickets for very good orchestra seats were a much appreciated gift from one of Eric’s voice students who sings tenor in the Chorus. The Choral Christmas Spectacular was a big holiday event with bustling crowds of congenial people of all ages dressed up and down for the holidays in mostly festive red and green, or elegant black, silver, gold, and white casual. Symphony concerts tend to attract an over-50 into 70s and 80s crowd anyway, but since it was a matinee, seniors were in abundance and in a joyful friendly mood. I suspect for many it was their one and only major holiday outing so their spirits were high. (Their enthusiasm in turn raised my CS, starting at 10 already, by +5 on a scale of 1-25.)

And why wouldn’t their spirits be high? The Hall and lobbies were decorated spectacularly with white lights, pine garlands, and a dozen 12-feet tall trees, each one decorated by a different school, organization, or club. One was all pink and white bows. Another was ornamented with compact discs that had been decorated with photos, colorful beads, and glitter. Still another had an under-the-sea theme with green and yellow streamers and smiling sea creatures. If crabs, eels, and starfish can smile during the holidays, why can’t we?

Indeed, I magically ended up in the aisle seat about twelve rows from the front and Eric sat to my left one seat in. I was delighted! (CS +5) We got to our seats ten minutes before curtain and we were the first in our row so naturally we had to stand a few times to let people pass to their seats. It gave us a chance to exchange smiles and greetings with women and get whiffs of different perfumes. The straight men shuffled by, their backs and bums to us, without a word, and if they did smile, it was an awkward one. (CS -2) Folks in front of and behind us settled in and removed their best coats, chattering away. Eric charmingly rescued the fallen red boa of the 60-ish woman in front of me—“You don’t want to lose the best part of your outfit,” he complimented. She and her two female companions chuckled and thanked him. (CS +2)

Crowds have always freaked me out, an issue I have been addressing and trying to manage (without drugs, I might add) for the last couple of years. My acupuncturist has also been encouraging and supporting me in “opening up my heart,” a real challenge in a mob situation. At concerts I like to have the lights off, otherwise I can’t perf…—I mean—enjoy the performance. It’s a combination of not wanting to be in the spotlight and being better able to concentrate on the musicians. I had ten minutes to get through before lights out. Inside, I secretly fretted over the appearance of my complex, physical organism. I had straightened my windblown hair in the men’s room before we went to our seats but wondered if since then it had shifted, revealing one of the thinning spots of my scalp. Without a mirror I didn’t dare touch it and possibly make it worse. I took a deep breath and told myself it was what it was, so if people wanted to judge me, what could I do? Same with the bags under my eyes and my dry, flaky skin. Double for the pretty azure shirt I was wearing, not really holiday appropriate but it’s shimmery and brings out the color of my eyes. I had thought about wearing a green shirt and a vintage red holiday tie but the shirt was dusty and old and there hadn’t been time to resuscitate it at the last minute. Not planning my outfits in advance had been a bone of contention in a previous relationship with a fashion plate. (CS -5)

I turned my attention to the program and Eric. Together, a concert tradition, we went over the list of Chorus members to tally how many were current or former students of Eric’s—2 tenors, 3 sopranos, 6 altos, and 3 basses. The music selections looked interesting, some standards but also some unfamiliar pieces from the conductor’s native Sweden. Oh, look, an audience sing-a-long of three carols! “Good King Wenceslas,” “ Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” I like singing carols and Eric’s powerful baritone would both lead me and cover me—fun! (CS +4)  But it also meant they’d turn the lights up so we could read the lyrics. (CS -2)

As the clock approached 2:00 p.m., the Hall began to fill up. I noticed a slender middle-aged bearded man wearing new smooth-finish blue jeans, (CS -1) offset with a nice red shirt and a black shiny vest. A pretty young woman with long straight blond hair came walking up the aisle from the front of the Hall. She had a plastic ID card hanging around her neck—must be a Hall employee. Just as she reached my row, she stopped to greet three females of different heights all dressed in black, all with shoulder-blade length dark brown manes. The tallest and the leader hugged the blond employee and wished her happy holidays. “Thank you so much for the tickets.” She gestured to the shortest and youngest one in their group, her daughter apparently. “Michelle said we may turn her into a culture person yet.” As they ambled timidly and awkwardly down to their seats in the front rows (their black trousers were trailer-park tight), I thought, “Not likely.” (CS -6)

My eyes were drawn to several rows down in front of us. From the side aisle a stocky, cute young man with a blond crew cut (who had been five urinals away from me in the men’s room) greeted and hugged an attractive woman and man, his parents perhaps. Suddenly, not one, not two, but three even better-looking young men, their gym-buffed bodies hiding under dress slacks and shirts, also entered from the side into the row in front of us, several seats away. The bald one wore his hairlessness quite well. Didn’t get a good look at the middle one. The one furthest away from me was a stellar beauty. Full head of black short hair, chiseled animated face, slender muscular torso. I guessed they were gay by their familiarity with one another and their ease with their row mates—or did they just have a lot of CS? Later during the concert their enthusiastic applause and hoots for the Chorus confirmed their sexual orientation in my mind/fantasies—they must know one or several of the male singers, perhaps were even sleeping with one or more of them. (CS +5) Not once during the event did they look towards Eric and me. (CS -4)

Finally the lights went down (CS +2) and the concert began dramatically with an empty stage. From the wings came female voices singing the opening bars to “Veni, Emmanuel,” which they continued as they processed in a single line to risers on the rear of the stage. In their places, the women became silent and then from the other side, male voices took over and they emerged onto the stage and processed to their places. Once the entire Chorus was in place, male and female voices together finished the piece gloriously. Eric and I applauded enthusiastically as the conductor took the stage. Eric’s student had gotten us passes to watch the Chorus warm-up downstairs in a rehearsal room before the performance. Eric was briefly introduced to Chorus Conductor Ragnar Bohlin before the warm-up started. Bohlin, in his quiet but animated manner, charmingly took command of the group and fine-tuned selected phrases of different pieces of the concert and had the singers adjust their technique and breathing.  Watching them onstage, I got teary thinking how fortunate the Bay Area is to have such a powerful, world-class group of singers. (CS +8)

Throughout the concert, my focus sometimes wandered. Between audience unrest and my own, internally-created distractions and criticisms, much of the beautiful music rises and swirls off into the rafters, unheard by human ears, or at least with less concentration than it deserves. Two elderly women in the seats right behind us were having a grand old time.  The woman on the aisle behind me was in her 80s or 90s, was severely hunched and used a walker.  She was dressed in a smart, elegant black pants suit with gold trim—quite classy. Her companion was probably 20 years her junior. Even after the conductor started the concert, they continued to chat energetically, and several people in the area turned around to send glances their way. (CS -3) To their favor, they mostly talked about the music. “Oh, the dream pantomime from Hansel and Gretel is so beautiful.” “Oh, yes, Humperdinck is an exquisite composer, one of my favorites,” the elder cooed. (CS +4) They eventually quieted down and went internal with their enthusiasm.

I sat and listened to the music, watched the conductor, and watched the Chorus members sing, especially the ones I know.  Amongst the ongoing swell of unfamiliar music, I recognized a section of one piece from the rehearsal where the men sang in pronounced nasal voices, producing a quality reminiscent of the shawm, a precursor to the oboe. After that highlight, my mind drifted and I thought about the last rock concert I saw, recalling how easy it had been to stay with what the band and lead singer were doing. Simpler music, lyrics that I know, vocal solos I remember from records.

I returned my attention to the holiday concert when three very young girls from The Crowden School came out and stood on the apron and sang delicate solos on another piece. The first half ended with an interesting and stirring rendition of the Rutter “Gloria”, unfamiliar to me. The lights came up and on a musical high, we made our way to the lobby with confidence, filled with love and joy for mankind. (CS +3) We used the rest room, looked at some of the decorated Christmas trees, and chatted about the first half highlights. But the lobby began to get crowded; folks were snapping photos in front of the trees and lining up at the bars for intermission wine and cocktails. We tried to look at things in the gift shop but it was packed with people in every aisle. I became frustrated and claustrophobic so we went back into the Hall to our seats. As we passed a young straight couple at the bar, the man smirked at me and looked away when I made eye contact. (CS -4)

For the second half of the concert, about a dozen members of the Symphony joined the Chorus, and they began with the more familiar J.S. Bach’s “Gloria” from “Mass in B minor.” Between the instruments, several excellent vocal soloists, and two sing-alongs, the second half went quickly and kept my attention. About the only time I lost track of the concert was to ruminate on how I envied the Chorus—having sung in a church choir I remembered how much work and concentration it took to prepare and perform a concert. My mind as a performer never drifted, I had no choice but to strive to follow every single note. In the audience, I was just another mess of carbon, processing never-ending internal and external stimuli, fighting to stay in the moment. I was brought back to the present yet again when baritone soloist Michael Taylor came downstage for “O Holy Night.” One section of the holiday favorite always brings me to tears—“Fall…on your knees, Hear the angel voices…” and this performance was no exception. (CS +4)

After the final sing-along and an encore the concert was over. Wonderful, the perfect antidote to the holiday blues. (CS=25) I thought, “Okay, I’m ready to start my Christmas shopping”—there were five days left.

Epilogue

The next day we recorded a White House Holiday special on the HGTV channel, about decoration preparations for the Obamas’ first Christmas in the White House. Michelle Obama announced the Christmas themes as “Reflect, Rejoice, Renew,” so a lot of the trees and decorations for the over 30 White House holiday receptions and tours were reused ornaments, crafted from natural sources, and would be recycled. The decorations were spectacular and very creative. However, when I heard later that on Christmas Eve the Obamas flew to spend Christmas Day in Hawaii, I was dumbfounded. What about their first Christmas in the White House? If it had been me, I would have wanted to wake up on Christmas morning in the White House, run around the rooms and marvel again at the decorations and open my stocking and my presents there in the White House, not in Hawaii!! I like the Obamas, am proud of them, but I sincerely hope the President digs real deep on their holiday break and renews the vows and resolutions made during the campaign, and revives them for the new year. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep the Grinch in myself at bay next holiday season. Hawaii—bah humbug!!

Okay, kids, it’s time for another flash of Dave’s mental trench coat.

As I go about my day minding my own business, certain memories flash into consciousness, and not always for an apparent reason. Just out of the blue. I acknowledge the memory and then carry on with my day. Most of these I’ve never told to anyone; there was no reason to. They’re just little “moments of being” to quote Virginia Woolf.

Following are my most frequent Mind Flashes. These are my personal memories—we all have them—and as I’m about to go public with them, it reminds me of another memory: a former boss warning me to keep certain project developments and financial information close to my chest, i.e., don’t share it with other staff members, it was just between him and me.  I worry that by sharing these Flashes, and not keeping them close to my chest, I’ll lose them, they’ll no longer flash into mind. Some of them I wish would stop, and now, maybe they will.

They’re not profound or million-dollar ideas but they are a part of my private mind and soul, some told to me in confidence, never shared, never forgotten. They’re not made up for the sake of “Oh Dave Now.” These are real memories. I have many more memories but these are the ones that pop up uncontrollably.

You are welcome to add yours. Try to keep them short. Put the approximate year in parentheses at the end of each Mind Flash.

I’ve categorized mine by theories as to why my mind won’t let them rest.

A Sweet and Happy Place

My dad picks me and my siblings up from Sunday school on a winter day. He tells us our mom went to the hospital to have a baby (my brother Paul). We get home and I lie on my stomach on the floor in the front porch in the sun, happily drawing in a coloring book. The styrofoam insulation on the porch walls is toasty warm to the touch. (1961)

I’m sitting on the front porch during a thunder storm with my best friend in high school, long before I’ve come out. He’s been talking for several minutes about conflicts he and his new girlfriend are having. I listen calmly and patiently and give him support, advising him not to give up, to try and work it out. Then he says, “Sometimes I don’t know who I love more, you or her.” (1975)

A group of 7 or 8 high school friends are spending the weekend at my straight friend Dan’s cabin in Wisconsin. There has been lots of drinking, playing softball, swimming in the lake, going out to roadhouses to meet girls. Late one afternoon we’re hanging out in the cabin. Dan and I are sitting on the sofa talking while several of the other guys are getting rowdy in the kitchen. His cute cousin Dick is fast asleep, curled up in an easy chair across from us. Dan says, “Sleeping beauty.”  I agree. (1976)

Freak Me Out!

My family is on a month-long car camping trip in Wyoming. We’re nearing the end of a long driving day and my mom is driving and we’re not sure where the turnoff is for a remote mountain campground. We have a Chrysler station wagon and in the back have made a small space next to the cooler and camping equipment that is big enough for one of us to lie down. I am about seven years old and am sitting up looking out the back of the car. My dad is yelling at my mom to turn left and there is general commotion. She stops in the lane of the road to make sure she can safely turn left. I look up and a large pickup truck has just come around a curve behind us and is barreling towards our car. A man is driving, a woman is in the passenger seat. Instinctively, I raise my arms and wave both hands, signaling them to the right of us. The driver obeys and pulls quickly to the right shoulder and ditch of the road and roars past us, just missing me, gravel flying. My dad yells at my mom to never come to a complete stop on a winding mountain road. (1964)

I’m sitting in math class in 8^th grade, in the front row in the chair next to the window. Our pastor’s son, who I’m friends with, sits in the chair to my right. While the teacher is lecturing and writing on the blackboard, my friend nudges me and mouths, “Look.”  His legs are stretched out and he points to his crotch and presses down with his fingers on the firm erection in his pants. (1972)

I’m on a steep winding road in Positano, Italy at dusk, leaning and looking over a cement wall. Below across a short gully is a small gym with its lights on. In a floor-to-ceiling window several young men are undressing in the locker room, some naked, some in jock straps. Two young women come walking up the road and noticing my intent gaze, look in the same direction. I look up at them and smile and the three of us break into laughter as they pass and I go on my way. (1981)

Too Much Information Leads to Mind Worms

A high school buddy tells me that when he moved out of his parents’ house into his own apartment, his dad’s embarrassing parting words were “Remember to clean your butt well when you shower.” He said he replied, “Dad, please, I know that, I’m 18 years old.” (1976)

Whenever the timer goes off on the microwave oven, I think of what Alex Trebek said on Jeopardy once after a contestant correctly answered “microwave oven” to a clue: “Don’t forget the all important stand time.” (2000)

Excuse me? Did you really just say that?

I attended the University of Minnesota–Twin Cities in the late 1970s. I had English classes on the Main Campus and Theatre classes on the West Bank. One cold sunny winter day, all bundled up, I was about to cross the Washington Avenue Bridge West to go to an acting class. The upper deck is for bicycles and pedestrians only–it’s over 1,000 feet long and four car lanes wide. It’s a long trek. As I started onto the bridge, two young men coming towards me were smiling. Just after they passed me, one said to the other, “He’s cute but his legs are so skinny.”  (1978)

My former partner Michael and I walk up a steep narrow stairway to the San Francisco apartment of one of his acquaintances, where a party is well underway. My hair is shoulder length and he has a head full of black ringlets. A female stranger at the top of the stairs announces in a loud voice, “The hippie fags are here.”  (1988)

At a potluck I serve my dad’s trademark appetizer of dill pickles smeared with cream cheese and wrapped in Hormel dried beef, sliced into rounds. A man remarks, “Yum. Prosciutto?”  I smile and lie “yes.” (2004)

My Ego Reminding Me of My Acute but Low-brow Wit and Comic Timing

I have just showered and dressed after high school gym class. I’m walking past a row of occupied toilet stalls. A friend of my older brother walking past me says, “Pugh. Was that you?”  I shake my head and say, “I don’t do that kind of shit.” He laughs. (1974)

My friend Tusa is visiting Michael and me for the weekend. It’s late, we’re tired and getting ready for bed on the 2^nd floor of our cottage apartment. Michael’s already in bed in the master bedroom, and she is reading in bed in the guestroom across the hall from the bathroom where I’m brushing my teeth and peeing. I hear Michael fart loudly. Without missing a beat I call out “Just a minute, I’ll be right there.” We all crack up laughing and Tusa says, “Like he was calling for you.” (1992)

Eric and I are sitting at a round table visiting with Eric’s mother and sister. We’re discussing whether President Clinton should be impeached for having sex with Monica Lewinsky and perhaps several other mistresses in between his presidential meetings. I blurt out innocently, “Whatever it takes to get the job done.” The others burst into laughter, thinking I was referring to a “job” other than presidential duties.  (1998)

Spontaneity is Glorious to Behold

I’m walking around Rome on a chilly November night from piazza to piazza. Two men are walking/strutting towards me. The one on my left uses his right hand to throw the end of his long scarf up over his left shoulder. The end flies up and hits his friend gently across his startled face. All three of us break into laughter. (1981)

I’m standing at a stoplight at the busy corner of 14^th and Broadway in downtown Oakland. A skinny, hunched over old black man in tattered clothing walks up along side of me, the nub of a cigarette in his mouth. He spots a cigarette butt about an inch and a half long in the gutter. He leaps for it and lights it with the nub just as the stoplight turns green. As he starts to cross the street smoking the new butt he says joyously, “Thank you, Jesus, this is my lucky day! Oh, yes, life is good!” He skips across the street. (2009)

It was on this day oh so many years ago that my mother went into labor and I was dragged forth from her loins kicking and screaming. I was the fourth of five children so she had some practice by the time I was born. But according to my father, my birth was the most difficult of the five because my head didn’t come down first. A breached baby, the doctor used a forceps to pull me out by the head, leaving red marks on my head that gradually went away. (I think he stretched my soft skull, leaving me with a long head and big forehead. And a fear of doctors?)

My parents are both deceased now and I never gave them enough credit for all they went through to give me life. I have been at times insensitive to their sacrifice, love, and devotion, and didn’t always treat them with the respect they deserved. I took them for granted, the way I take the Bay Bridge for granted when I just want to get across and get somewhere, not acknowledging all the engineering and hard work behind it, despite cracks and collapses.

Like the song “Teach Your Children” expresses, raising kids and growing up are “hell” for parents and kids. On bad days I said at least once, “I wish I was dead. I never asked to be born.”  That upset my mother and she scolded me. I think it also caught her by surprise, because I was a good kid, a bit of a mama’s boy. We were close and enjoyed spending time together. But like any family, we had our tragedies and conflicts, and it sometimes clouded our connection and my love for her. So on this day, I celebrate the woman who gave birth to me.

My mother, Verna, married my father in 1947 at a time when women aspired primarily to be wives, homemakers, and parents. She took motherhood seriously, and family and kids were the focus of her life. Once as a young adult, standing in front of her desk at our Lutheran church where she was the secretary for many years, I complimented her intelligence and capabilities and asked if she regretted not going to college and having a career. She replied, “Of course not. I wanted to have kids and a family. You kids are everything to me.”

She was proud to be a mother and gave an incredible amount of energy, perhaps obsessively so, to care for us and create a fun and nourishing family life. Like many mothers, she cooked, canned, gardened, sewed, knitted, and made crafts, in addition to housework. She sewed her own clothes including some of her whimsical maternity clothes which I still have. In short, she liked to keep busy with her hands, especially with crafts. With two neighbor ladies, Mrs. Moxley and Mrs. Leach, she created an abundance of crepe flower centerpieces, sequined holiday tablecloths, crocheted doilies, and holiday decorations and Christmas wreaths. The three of them belonged to different churches and each donated many of their creations for the poor and for fundraisers.

We lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota in good neighborhoods arranged in neat grids with lots of other big families. She belonged to neighborhood ladies’ groups like sewing club and took her turn hosting and serving refreshments. She was always baking for neighborhood, family, and church potlucks. She was on committees at church, attended Bible study, and sang in the choir.

Most of the down-and-dirty vegetable gardening was done by my father, but Mom did some of the flower planting. Her favorites were Lily-of-the-Valley and orange and black Tiger Lilies.

A pretty, voluptuous woman with intense eyes and big cheeks and smile, she dressed neatly and had an alternately fun and modest sense of style. She carried herself in public proudly but with humility and reserve. At home she dressed more casually, in work clothes of sleeveless blouse and culottes or Capri pants. At times she seemed overwhelmed by us five kids and trying to keep it all together. She could be critical and burst into anger, but it was out of frustration and trying to maintain control of sometimes unruly and bickering brothers and sister. Her escape was to retreat to her bedroom and close the door and Dad would keep us occupied so Mom could have some quiet time for a change.

Mom approached housecleaning, laundry, and cooking with determination and slow precision. After long Midwest winters, there was spring cleaning. Mom’s fastidious method was to clean every inch of the inside of the house, wiping down every wall, baseboard, door, window sill, cupboard, and shelf with a sponge. Windows were washed inside and out. Draperies were washed, rugs were shaken and aired, carpets shampooed. She put my dad and us kids to work too but she had the most attention to detail. I gave her a run for her money though. I took that sponge and systematically made sure to wipe the walls, doors, and window sills thoroughly.

We always had a cat and /or dog in the house so the kitchen floor was ground zero for dirt. To get the kitchen floor clean, it went like this: first sweep with a broom to get the dirt, then vacuum to get what the broom missed, then mop with Spic-n-Span, and then apply Johnson’s Floor Wax.

My sister, the oldest and only girl, remembers doing a lot of ironing. It was mostly Dad’s dress shirts and hankies, but also the boys’ dress shirts, Mom’s blouses, pants, and skirts, even the pillowcases.

When it came to preparing meals, Mom was again on top of it. She was a good, quiet cook and made family dinner every night of the week. She didn’t do much improvising but instead followed recipes precisely. I was fascinated by cooking and frequently helped her by peeling vegetables, measuring out ingredients, beating eggs, or stirring pots. She had a repertoire of dinners, some that we had every week, some that showed up now and then. Coming from a Finnish background, her cooking tended to be lightly seasoned even when she made spaghetti or chili. Everybody liked her cooking for the most part. It was solid and dependable though not usually fancy.

Minneapolis was the home of General Mills, Betty Crocker, and Pillsbury and they influenced my Mom’s cooking and entertaining as they did Minnesota and the country in general. However, she rarely if ever used cake mixes, a practice she has passed on to me. She did all her baking from scratch including cakes, pie crusts, breads, cookies, and candies.  Mom was on the committee that produced our church’s simply named “Cook Book” and contributed nine recipes which I’ve collected in the attached PDF.

Her Salmon Loaf has become one of my staples. French Fried Liver was the least favorite dinner of our family and we let her know it but she told us to eat it anyway and we did. I forgot about her Butter Mints recipe—will have to make some this holiday season.

Her recipe for Whipped Cream Frosting was her claim to fame. She was the only one who could get it to come out right, since it didn’t use cream but is a mysterious concoction of flour, milk, butter, shortening, and sugar. For our birthdays she always gave us our choice of dessert. I often chose banana cream pie but my favorite was devil’s food cake with her Whipped Cream Frosting. The last time I tried to make it, it came out grainy. Hers was as smooth as whipped cream.

For relaxation, she liked to read and play records like Englebert Humperdinck or Broadway and movie musical scores and sing along. At Christmas my sister played piano while the rest of us sang along to carols. With the family Mom liked to watch TV programs like the Andy Williams Show, Lawrence Welk, I Love Lucy, Carol Burnett, and even Laugh-In in the late 1960s. Offended and titillated at the same time by off-color humor, she frequently laughed herself to tears.

At bedtime, after a long day, either she or my dad would read us bedtime stories or at least tuck us in, and hug and kiss us goodnight. Whatever had gone down during the day, those moments of tenderness helped wash any bad feelings away.

For my birthday in 1965, she took me to the premiere of the movie “The Sound of Music” in downtown Minneapolis at a big ornate movie house. It was a full house and we sat in the balcony so I could see the movie. In those days, people dressed up for evening showings of movies, especially downtown. I remember wearing dress pants, a dress shirt, and a sweater, my hair neatly combed. After we found our seats, she let me go by myself downstairs to the snack bar to get some popcorn and Junior Mints. It was a big deal and made me feel grownup, but truth is I was a runt in a sea of adults. I got to the snack bar okay but was having trouble getting through the crowd to the balcony with my hands full so a kindly gentleman helped me get back to Mom. They exchanged smiles, I suppose acknowledging my cute timidity.

We both loved the movie and in the next months wore out the soundtrack. Many years later when I was in college and her health was failing, making it difficult for her to get around, I took her to see a touring revival production of “Camelot” starring Richard Harris at the same theatre. It was a treat to see a live production with the charming actor who made the role of King Arthur famous, and to share a memorable outing together again though I know it was uncomfortable for her to sit long in one place.

Shortly after I graduated from college I was transferred to Sacramento, California by my employer and lived there for the last two years of my mother’s life. Her family was genetically presupposed to rheumatoid arthritis and she suffered greatly from it for nearly 10 years. She got some relief from medication but also had both hip joints and both knee joints replaced, a new thing at the time. It helped tremendously with the pain but she had to walk with a cane and eventually stopped driving. Only in her late 50s, she looked like a little old lady.

Then in 1985 at age 57 she was diagnosed with aplastic anemia, a blood disease related to rheumatoid arthritis. There was no treatment for it and doctors gave her less than a year. We talked and cried over the phone and I made plans to go stay with her. Sadly, two weeks later she suddenly passed away. Fittingly for a career mother, she died on the evening before Mother’s Day. While my sister and she waited in her apartment for an ambulance to arrive, the bouquet of roses I had sent her for Mother’s Day was delivered. Later that evening in the hospital, she was gone.

Today I think about all the positive characteristics she gave to me: her love for creative projects, cooking from scratch, singing, and an obsessive attention to cleanliness, spelling, and punctuation. I marvel at her acceptance and appreciation of the beautiful details in a sometimes painful existence. I humbly and gratefully acknowledge what a momentous occasion, of both pain and joy, my birth must have been for her.

Mom, I raise my glass in respect and celebration of who you were.  And also in respect of the life you gave me.  To Verna!