I have written about my mother many times in the past. I always wanted to know her deeply. In her wisdom and due to her past experiences she would tell me some but not all about her. I was so curious to understand why she was who she was and what she felt as a child. After her passing I pulled together the notes and clues she left behind for us to find. I did detective research and used some imagination to write a story about her life and that of her family in Chicago. She was born there in 1923. And finally after this story writing I could put her to rest in the most revered place in my heart. I so loved my mother and felt so dedicated and close to her my whole life. I also felt the mother daughter angst that expresses the struggle of girls seeking to be themselves, unique women of their time. I believe this is a normal and necessary part of our psychological make up that helps us propel forward each generation at a time. But I do think it can cause confusion too. I experienced that with Mom. But, now I know and understand not only enough about the pieces of her past in The Great Depression and through World War II but also by what we learn as we grow and age ourselves. I feel my mom so close now. It is as if she is here right behind the veil. She is pacing and waiting, listening to us and embracing us as we are in our baby vigil. I feel so blessed that I can feel her so close.
Mom was also a writer. She wrote poems. Not only did I write the story about her life but I also compiled her poems. After she passed we found poems everywhere. They were in journals in her antique chest, in her favorite books on the shelf and laying in places we did not expect. I published a compilation of the poems for our family and friends and called it Fragments. They were pieces, fragments of her life she needed to write about. I imagine it is like I experience writing. As you write and edit and listen to your words you gain more understanding. Writing causes you to stop and focus. She wrote regularly. I read all of her interesting writings. I learned even more about her and probably more than she really wanted me too. As I said above she was quite private but she knowingly left her writings for us to discover. She shared little of her poetry when she was alive. She did not find it necessary or helpful to do so. Sometimes she would offer a poem to each of her four children so we all knew mom was indeed a poet.
And we knew we were her greatest love along with Dad who was her knight in shining armor. Here is a poem mom wrote for us that I am sure she would say it was fine to share.......
Reflections on a Mother’s Day In her Garden, 1976
Amidst these seedlings
Nodding new-born heads against my sunny garden wall
I think today of you
My son, my daughter, my daughter, my son
Nourishing these sprigs and those that spring from me
Has been my everlasting and cherished joy
Tall, strong and beautiful you have grown
And within you I meet and sense a strength
Giving answer to a gardener’s prayer:
May there be roots that search deep
That reach out to seek a world
Hidden beneath the cover
Of this protected bed.
For Mike, Greg, Robin and Sue from their mother
Indeed this is the prayer that mothers hold for their children.....
This photo must be circa 1995 ish of our family.......
And this is a poem she wrote about her first grandchild, Ethan, Greg's son.
For Ethan
Son of my son
Your little boy – hand
Enfolded in mine
We stand for thee expectantly at the ocean edge
Our legs touching as we wiggle our toes
Beneath the slipping sand that is
Pulled back into the sea
Your little fingers curled within my palm
Gripping memories of other sea days rush in
As the waves roll toward us
“Here it comes again” you cry with glee
The white sudsy wave tips fill those spaces
Between our toes as we press deep to hold on to sand
Slipping, sinking, sliding, riding out again.
“Will it come again, come again?”
No stopping the tides,
the currents,
the tumbling waves will roll up to meet
and tickle little boy toes
Again
And again
And again.
And I am sure Ethan remembers his times with Grammy as do my girls. In fact I know how much Ethan loved our mother. I am proud of the grandmother my mother was. Her love was true and forever warm. I know my daughters have their special memories of Grammy and of Pa. I hope that Doug and I will also be able to build those types of memories with this first grandchild. And, I hope that Ian's mother and I will build a grandmother bond of nurturing and support together. Wouldn't that be wonderful? So, looking forward to this adventure about to happen.
Today, it is unseasonably warm, most snow has melted, rain has fallen, it is gray outside yet welcoming for a new day, a good day to be born?
Mom was also a writer. She wrote poems. Not only did I write the story about her life but I also compiled her poems. After she passed we found poems everywhere. They were in journals in her antique chest, in her favorite books on the shelf and laying in places we did not expect. I published a compilation of the poems for our family and friends and called it Fragments. They were pieces, fragments of her life she needed to write about. I imagine it is like I experience writing. As you write and edit and listen to your words you gain more understanding. Writing causes you to stop and focus. She wrote regularly. I read all of her interesting writings. I learned even more about her and probably more than she really wanted me too. As I said above she was quite private but she knowingly left her writings for us to discover. She shared little of her poetry when she was alive. She did not find it necessary or helpful to do so. Sometimes she would offer a poem to each of her four children so we all knew mom was indeed a poet.
And we knew we were her greatest love along with Dad who was her knight in shining armor. Here is a poem mom wrote for us that I am sure she would say it was fine to share.......
Reflections on a Mother’s Day In her Garden, 1976
Amidst these seedlings
Nodding new-born heads against my sunny garden wall
I think today of you
My son, my daughter, my daughter, my son
Nourishing these sprigs and those that spring from me
Has been my everlasting and cherished joy
Tall, strong and beautiful you have grown
And within you I meet and sense a strength
Giving answer to a gardener’s prayer:
May there be roots that search deep
That reach out to seek a world
Hidden beneath the cover
Of this protected bed.
For Mike, Greg, Robin and Sue from their mother
Indeed this is the prayer that mothers hold for their children.....
This photo must be circa 1995 ish of our family.......
And this is a poem she wrote about her first grandchild, Ethan, Greg's son.
For Ethan
Son of my son
Your little boy – hand
Enfolded in mine
We stand for thee expectantly at the ocean edge
Our legs touching as we wiggle our toes
Beneath the slipping sand that is
Pulled back into the sea
Your little fingers curled within my palm
Gripping memories of other sea days rush in
As the waves roll toward us
“Here it comes again” you cry with glee
The white sudsy wave tips fill those spaces
Between our toes as we press deep to hold on to sand
Slipping, sinking, sliding, riding out again.
“Will it come again, come again?”
No stopping the tides,
the currents,
the tumbling waves will roll up to meet
and tickle little boy toes
Again
And again
And again.
And I am sure Ethan remembers his times with Grammy as do my girls. In fact I know how much Ethan loved our mother. I am proud of the grandmother my mother was. Her love was true and forever warm. I know my daughters have their special memories of Grammy and of Pa. I hope that Doug and I will also be able to build those types of memories with this first grandchild. And, I hope that Ian's mother and I will build a grandmother bond of nurturing and support together. Wouldn't that be wonderful? So, looking forward to this adventure about to happen.
Today, it is unseasonably warm, most snow has melted, rain has fallen, it is gray outside yet welcoming for a new day, a good day to be born?
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