Barbara (Mom) and Me, fall 1974
Herb Jr., Great Aunt Loretta "Boo" Hunter and Toddler Barbara
Me and LJ, City Island, Summer 2010
It is said that there is a season for all things – and though I never cared for the “Turn, Turn, Turn” song, I will attribute the lyrics as having come directly from the book of Ecclesiastes. I decided to look this up and remind myself of their origins, because those lyrics taken as simple verse are so very moving. I thought of them tonight as I arrived to my country home on a clear, cold and starry night because of my mother Barbara, who I used to come here with. Also because I plan to plant spring bulbs with my young daughter tomorrow, and there’s a verse about a time to plant.
The third anniversary of Mom’s passing is coming up quickly this fall season. Being in this old house, I think of her, for she is everywhere. A large reproduction of a photo of her in black and white from when she was in her early 20s hangs above my breakfast table. She smiles down broadly in her straw hat on the beach, looking more carefree than I ever knew her in life. She also reminds me as I start a new day in the quiet country air that even if things haven’t been going great, the new day could be. We danced here, laughed, cried as my grandmother Jane, to whom the house originally belonged, died in her bed in the Shinnecock home that she loved.
Perhaps this is your like own ongoing recollections of loved ones who are gone; you remember exact words, experiences…even, as I do, the weather, and how Mom and I used to arrive here under the cover of darkness on similarly chilly fall nights. But, it’s been awhile. She was sick for a time, and while that was happening, I didn’t come to our house*. I didn’t want to leave her side, and also, it was painful to be here without her.
Though I’ve made over the home since her death in ways I hope she would have approved of – gutting bathrooms and purging drywall and an entire attic and basement full of outdated and moldy c*ap from 1973, filling two 30-yard dumpsters that were as heavy as my grief - I have kept certain touches that were hers (vintage blue glass bottles, old family photos in my “ancestors” corner, the wood stove my grandma bought in 1985) and it still feels like she’s here sometimes. And maybe she is. If so, I hope that as I work with my toddler daughter LJ tomorrow morning, planting first-spring crocuses and later-spring daffodils, putting our hands in the dirt, Mom will be reminded how she and I used to do this sometimes in the fall. Certainly, I’ll remember.
Oh, and if you’re feeling the least bit teary or perhaps just nostalgic for old times you had with your mom or dad – and whether you still have them around or not – go with the feeling, get a pen – or a keyboard – and start writing those memories down. You won’t regret it. I never do.
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*You’ll notice perhaps that I did not post any pictures of the house. I’ll leave it to your imagination.
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Lovely, Alli. I forwarded it to some friends who I know will appreciate it.