Basically Betty

In 2002, a dear friend of mine named Kristin died.  She was 88, I met her when she was 84 and she and I were thick as thieves the last 4 years of her life.  We called her my West Coast Mom.  My Mom, Betty, used to send Kristin birthday cards, mother's day cards, Christmas cards and would always ask about her every time Mom and I talked.  Kristin always asked about Mom.  It was fantastic having two Moms for a while there.

Kristin was a simple woman, a millionaire, but simple.  Her gloves didn't match.  She bought day old bread.  Her house was dirty but clean enough.  She was alone until I found her collapsed into a laurel hedge seeking refuge from a downpour, I talked her into letting me help her get home and from then on, I took her grocery shopping every week, to all her doctor appointments and slowly but surely, became her surrogate daughter.  She called me her angel but really, she was the one who was heavenly.  Kristin was lovely.

I didn't know she was rich until she died, she'd written me into her will for a tiny fraction of a fraction of a fraction, and it was still enough to help me pay off some of my business debt and give me some breathing room for a few months.

There were many great things about Kristin but one of the neatest things about her was how she pared down her existence until, after she died, there was hardly anything left for those of us handling her affairs to have to contend with.

This is not the case with my Mom.

Mom loved stuff.  She kept almost everything.  And by everything, I mean everything.

Now, my sister is slowly sending me choice belongings and a few days ago a small box arrived with about 6 pairs of Mom's favorite earrings, some pins and two scarves.  I've already received a bunch of hats, some scarves and other jewelry. 

For those of you who ever saw it, Mom's closet rivaled the racks at Macy's - she had easily over a hundred tops, half that number of slacks and around 30 dresses.  Moving to North Carolina gave her a reason to begin collecting coats, sweaters, wraps and the like. 

There seemed to be no stopping her.  Mom is the opposite of Kristin.

The two muumuus I bought her in Hawaii - now back in my closet - are among my favorite Mom things, Heidi and I are going to wear them this summer at one of our studio parties, and, as I told you a while back, I will eventually buy hat holders and put the hats up around the walls of the studio and on special days, we'll get them down and wear them during class. 

So far, everything my sister has sent has found a home in my home.  I will glue these newly arrived earrings on a box I'm painting for Mom's ashes - it will be a little performance piece all its own.  I still have a bunch of things Kristin gave me, too.  Like her cutting board, a bunch of her kitchen stuff, a set of chairs, her spinet desk and best of all, her key fob. 

Is sentimentality herediatary?  If so, I know how I got this.  I got this from my real Mom, not my West Coast Mom.  My West Coast Mom was a minimalist.  My real Mom was a maximalist.  I'm a bit of both.

Love and Prayers From Here to There

I’ve been in Palm Springs since Saturday night, I flew down to work with a couple of clients who winter in the California desert, effectively escaping the dismal, dank, drizzly and dark Seattle winters.  As I write this, I'm on an Alaska Air flight back to Seattle.

I happen to love Seattle winters but most people don’t.  Not only do we boast the highest suicide rate in the country, the bridge right by my house has the second most jumpers (after Golden Gate) and Seattle also has the distinction of being the coffee consumption capitol of the world.  This is all related to the rain.

It doesn’t help matters that when I’m asked why the weather doesn’t bother me, I respond “it’s always sunny on the inside.”  If they ask, I tell the truth and it never goes over well.

My 17 Year Man, John, suffered mightily with the winter doldrums.  He works a legit job where he has to be there early every morning and he has to stay until late every night; he goes months without seeing the daylight, or the graylight, as I call our Seattle winter skies. 

I do not have a legit job.  I’ve never really had a legit job.  With my job, which feels as much a part of me as my lungs, my hair, my feet, I get to do whatever I want.  I get to show up when I want.  I leave when I want.  I can spend the middle of the day in Pike Place Market buying and eating those tiny donuts that the vendor covers in cinnamon and sugar.  I can run errands.  Make doctor and dentist and hair cut appointments whenever I want.  I am the master of my domain.  I can enjoy hours of our graylight and I think that’s the biggest contributing factor to why the Seattle winters have never bothered me.

In contrast, I lived in Bend, Oregon, at the 4,000 foot level for 10 years and in Bend, it’s sunny all the time.  More than Florida.  And hot.  Dry and hot.  I was unmoved by the weather in Bend just like I am unmoved by the weather in Seattle.  I’m just hard to move, I guess. 

I do miss St. Pete storms and although we just flew through 2 thunder storms, they’re not the kind I miss.  I miss the kind that I’m on the ground to enjoy, not the ones I’m flying through.

I’m going to fish out the picture Mom took of me when I was in third or fourth grade, during a huge storm, when she agreed as easily as if it were the most logical thing to do that we would drive down to Bayfront Center and I could walk on the sidewalk and watch the waves.  Once we got down there, I turned inside out with glee to see that the waves were not only huge but they were breaking over the sidewalk after crashing violently into the seawall with a crack.  I talked Mom into – again, this wasn’t hard, she was nothing if not game for adventure as long as she could watch it, not do it – letting me sit on the pipe railing, with my feet hooked through the lower rungs, in hopes the waves would drench me.  Well, I not only got my wish but Mom, with her handy 110 instamatic, captured the moment for all time.  This is yet another example of an event that I’m sure, had we a nosy neighbor with a malicious streak, Mom could have been charged with child endangerment, child neglect or wishful child abandonment should there be such a thing.   I digress.

I think about Mom all the time.  My thoughts of her are not driven by grief, they’re driven by the fact that my life is continuing and hers isn’t and I want to talk to her and I want to see her and I want to email pictures to her and I just basically want her to still be alive.  So, as I dash through every day, she’s with me but not in an ominous way, she's with me in a “I wish Mom could see this” way.  In a “Mom would love this” way.  In a “Mom would know what I should do” way. 

Back to Palm Springs.

My host, a dear soul opened her gorgeous home to me, shared her family with me, included me in the many activities of the holiday weekend (I don’t seem to recognize President’s Day, I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do, I don’t know how to observe it – do we think about past Presidents?  Do we have Parades in their honor?  I am just not committed to this as a concept and I’m this close to ignoring it all together).  It was a beautiful weekend.

As Mom was dying, my host not only sent emails of gorgeous poems that helped settled my soul, she bought me books, she checked in, she held my hands and sat quietly with me, she unflinchingly listened to the long detailed horror stories of how Mom’s body fell apart, she graciously put my needs above hers in coping with my schedule of being with Mom every other week or so and me not being in Seattle to work with her. 

My host has recently had foot surgery and she’s still in a boot so our activities this weekend were Pilates, I massaged her feet, I worked with other clients, we had beautiful meals with her big family (when I left, I told her, one down, TWELVE to go! – it’s a big family!). 

Indian Canyon is in her backyard and she loves hiking there.  We knew she couldn’t even walk normally, let alone hike, so I wasn’t expecting to get out and about but today, we finished at the studio in time for us to take a trip into the Canyons in the car. 

Palm Springs is the high desert.  Bend is the high desert.  All high deserts look alike.  All high deserts are beautiful. 

This was only the 3^rd time I’ve been in Palm Springs and I really like it.  If I were the type of person who bought time shares, I’d buy one and go to Palm Springs every year.

Mom would love Palm Springs.

Frank, Dino, Dinah, Sonny.  All the stars.  Frank and Sonny are buried there.  Mom loved Frank and although she didn’t love Sonny, she did love that one wooly vest he used to wear in the 1960s. 

In addition to the terrain and the weather, another thing I love about Palm Springs is the architecture. 

When I’m really rich I’ll have two things.  I’ll have an ice machine like they do at bowling alleys, the kind where it makes an endless supply of crushed ice, and I’ll have a Frank Neutra (sp?) house.  There are Neutra houses in Palm Springs.  There are also lots of other mid-century masterpieces, all strewn about, nestled high and low in the hills. 

When I have an ice machine in a Neutra house, I’ll be the happiest person in the world.

As we drove into the Canyon today, my host said that when her Mom died, she would hike into the Canyons and sit on her favorite rock and talk to her Mom.

I’d just read a short piece in Seattle Metropolitan Magazine about a man in Seattle on a short job assignment who had daily phone conversations with his father who was ill back in his home state of Texas.  The essence of the piece was how the son would sit on Harbor Steps every day and call his Dad on his lunch hour and he’d describe the sights, the smells, he even told his Dad about our famous Lusty Lady strip club where they always have a cute saying with a strip club slur on the marquee: The Chronicles of Nudia.

I don’t have a place-centric Mom connection.  Mom is everywhere for me.  I access her all over.  If there’s a portal where there’s more of her, I haven’t found it yet.  And come to think of it, I don’t have a special place.  I love my airplane seat.  I love my bed.  I love love love my Pilates studio.  But I don’t have a quiet place.  I don’t have a holy place.  I don’t have a serious place.  I only have every place.  I have everywhere.  I feel like I have the world and I feel like Mom’s everywhere.

I’ve finally placed her ashes, Daddy’s too, in the new house; they’re on the 4^th floor (I live in a “tall skinny,” an infill house) in a big window facing South where they will be bathed in gray light, sun light, moon light and star light. 

Indian Canyon is gorgeous and, timeshare notwithstanding, I will go back when my host and I can hike and she can take me to her rock and I will see if I feel a stronger Mom than the one who is on my shoulder, in my heart and whose voice constantly fills my ears.  How could she be more there than here.  In 14E.  On the way home to Seattle.

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

So, I came off a 10 day road trip on the 28th of January and immediately began packing because 3 days after returning home, movers came and moved me into my new place.  That's the thing about moving, you have to put all your stuff in boxes, move the boxes, take all your stuff out of the boxes and put it away.  Then it's time to clean.

Since returning to Seattle almost 10 days ago, I've been so busy I haven't had time to do much of anything but settle into the new house and it's been a relief to be this busy because I've been struggling with feeling more and more separated from Mom. 

I wrote last week how surprised I was about my missing her more than usual because things were happening in my life that she didn't know about and I realized that I'd been laboring under an illusion of sorts.  She and I talked so much about my plans that I felt like she was involved in them and when my plans began to evolve in ways I couldn't anticipate, taking me into directions I never told her about, I felt really separate from her.  And that ain't good.

In the process of moving, I've kept her little shrine in tact, always knowing right where all my Mom Stuff is, and that's helped me feel a bit more stable in this most unstable time.

Today, unpacking boxes of office stuff, I went through an old Supersonics folder and I found a copy of a thank you card I sent to my Sonics ticket rep, Zack, who'd learned quite a bit about Mom through me and who took me to a Rays game om 2006 when the team was in town to play the Mariners. 

Although Zack never met Mom, he loved her because of that fan-to-fan connection that's so strong among all sports fans, regardless of the sport, regardless of the team.  Zack was also connected to the Rays because his good buddy is BJ Upton.  Zack pitched in college and the minors but never got called up and he loved Mom even though he never met her. Zack had the Rays send Mom a goodie bag back in 2005 after she had one of those designer strokes she used to have every once in a while.  Anyway, read this.

 

Here's the ticket from the game Zack took me to.

Do you remember that non-balk call?  Boy, was Mom mad. 

When I'm unpacked and settled, Mom will still be gone, I'll still be behind and more things will be happening to me that take me further into my life and further from hers but I am reminded, through this note to Zack, that she's here, right here, and her passion, her loves, her joys are mine.  And yours.

Love and Prayers From Here to There